


To Have and To Hoard

by PurrpleCat



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, BAMF Bilbo, Bilbo and Beorn are BFFs, But He Gets Better, Dragon!Bilbo, Gandalf is a meddler, Goldlust, Hurt/Comfort, Kind of..., M/M, Mentions of Past Torture, Mentions of Slavery, PTSD, Sassy Bilbo, Shapeshifter!Bilbo, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Temperamental!Bilbo, Thorin is an arsehole, Were-Worms, kind of, shapeshifter!au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 14:04:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 53,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2153400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurrpleCat/pseuds/PurrpleCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Gandalf strolled up the Bagshot Row towards Bag End, Bilbo Baggins was far from pleased.</p><p>He might have owed the wizard a favour, sure, though the old coot himself never even mentioned payback of any kind, but a suicidal quest to reclaim a homeland and slay a dragon with only thirteen dwarves, and not thirteen of the brightest at that, was a bit too much.</p><p>Then there was, of course, the issue of him being a dragon. Kind of. And even bigger issue of Goldlust that could only be controlled by a Tamer. But Bilbo's people were long dead and gone, and his potential Heart with them. </p><p>So why is his spirit all but purring at the sight of a certain pigheaded Dwarf King?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Meddling Wizard and The Dragon

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! 
> 
> The story I have for you today, m'dears, was inspired by a quote in 'The Hobbit', in which Bilbo mentions 'Were-Worms', a mythical monster from the Shire's folklore. My mind latched itself onto the idea of Bilbo being a shapeshifter, or rather a dragon-creature that could shapeshift. 
> 
> And lo and behold! I already have a 30,000 words story and not even a kiss between our heroes. I have decided to post it in parts, probably with weekly updates, so that I have the time to write more and you can enjoy it. IF you'll enjoy it, of course. I apologise for any mistakes and typos in advance - the story has not been beta'ed.
> 
> Thanks for being here and for reading! Kudos and Comments are most welcome!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit made by the amazing [ Dixnysus](http://dixnysus.co.vu), hugs and kisses for making it, you're amazing :)

 

 

 

„ _Tell me what you want done, and I will try it, if I have to walk from here to the East of East and fight the wild Were-worms in the Last Desert.”_

_J.R.R TOLKIEN, The Hobbit_

 

There was no doubt among the people of the Shire that one Mister Bilbo Baggins was not an ordinary hobbit. True, he walked and talked like any other hobbit, dressed in respectable waistcoats with brass buttons polished to high shine and a beautifuly embroidered handkerchief in his pocket. He was of average height and weight for a hobbit, not tall and lean like some of the Brandybucks or short and fat like majority of the Chubbs; but there was softness to him that spoke of healthy meals and indulgement in sweets and cakes. His hair was curled like other hobbits', shining golden in the sun, and his feet were bare with thick, healthy hair growing atop them. He was kind and polite. The Shire folk adored him.

He would have been a very respectable hobbit, indeed, were he a hobbit in the first place.

For there was no doubt in the eyes of the halflings that, despite his very hobbity looks and habits, Master Bilbo was not a hobbit; no hobbit lived for so long and still looked no more than fifty, with no wrinkles marking his true age – his face was smooth and cheeks rosy; not even deep lines of merriment spoiled his complexion, though he dearly loved to laugh. How old Bilbo truly was no one knew and he himself avoided the subject whenever a more daring hobbit asked him about it. But the hobbits knew that Bilbo was around long before Brandobas „Bullroarer” Took charged the goblin hordes and chased them away from their lands. Some hobbits even speculated that he was present when first hobbits came to settle in the Shire, but of course they had no way of proving it and Bilbo only smiled thinly and shook his head in exasperation each time the gossip was mentioned within his earshot.

Before Master Bilbo became a Baggins, he was a rather secluded individual. Sure enough, he was polite to other hobbits and especially kind to fauntlings, but he kept mainly to himself and his little hobbit hole at the very edge of Hobbiton. His neighbours could often see him wandering the fields behind his smial, collecting herbs and other plants, or simply smoking his pipe in peace. It was Mungo Baggins who had first befriended him and they soon became inseperable. _Brothers,_ the other hobbits called them whenever they were seen together, _not in blood but in bond._ And so it came as no surprise when Mungo Baggins, old and frial when Bilbo remained young and strong despite the passage of time, declared Bilbo a honorary Baggins. When Mungo died, Bilbo's grief was a terrible thing to behold – he locked himself in his smial, refusing to see anyone, and when he finally did come out afer long months of mourning his face was so thin and pale the other hobbits thought him to be at death's door. But Bilbo did not die and as time passed he became more and more like himself. He befriended Mungo's son Bungo, who looked a lot like his father when he was younger, and his sweet wife Belladonna Took. The three of them could often be seen outside Bag End smoking their pipes, sometimes chatting merrily and puffing smoke rings, sometimes sitting in silence, leaning against each other as the sun dipped behind the horizon.

Belladonna and Bungo died before they could produce a heir – Fell Winter came, and it was long and merciless. They perished only days apart from each other, both succumbing to sickness despite Bilbo's frantic efforts to save them. And so it was written in their Will that, should they die without an heir, Bag End and all their belongings would be inherited by Bilbo and Bilbo alone.

For the first year or so after their deaths the luxurious smial stood empty. Bilbo again locked himself in his own hole, mourning the loss of his friends once more. Young Hamfast Gamgee tended diligently to Belladonna's gardens as he was instructed by Master Bilbo before he disappeared, and soon the smell of fresh flowers in bloom surrounded Bag End. Only then did Bilbo move in, other hobbits welcoming him with open arms, and there he stayed. His neighbours liked him, little hobbitlings adored him. Life continued at a steadfast pace, quiet and calm. Nothing unexpected ever happened.

Until Gandalf appeared in Hobbiton.

 

*

 

Bilbo was not pleased to see Gandalf coming calmly up Bagshot Row towards Bag End. He puffed at his pipe, frowning. Whatever the dratted meddler was doing in the Shire, especially in Hobbiton, did not bode well. Indeed, usually whereever Gandalf appeared trouble was not far behind. Like adventures or other unsavoury business of that kind.

„Absolutely not,” Bilbo said around the stem of his pipe as soon as the wizard crossed the little gate leading up to his door. Gandalf chuckled, leaning against his staff. His eyes shone with mischief.

„I haven't even had the chance to say „good morning” and yet you already wish to chase me away.” He tutted with a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. „Shame on you, old friend.”

„We're hardly friends, wizard,” Bilbo muttered, his gaze still fixed firmly on his unwanted guest. „Say your good mornings and go. I have no time for your mad plans, whatever they are.”

Gandalf's silver eyebrows rose slightly, but it was impossible to say whether he was amused or shocked by Bilbo's frankness. Though Bilbo might not actually be a hobbit, he was one _now_ and no hobbit was rude unless the situation called for it and even then it was frowned upon. _Lack of manners,_ Belladonna used to say, her eyes alive with laughter _, is a sign of dying culture._ So Bilbo clenched his teeth around his pipe, took a deep breath and bowed politely to the wizard who watched with him with such amusement Bilbo considered punching him in the nose.

„Good morning,” Bilbo said, his voice slow as if he were talking to a simpleton. Gandalf snorted.

„Good moring, indeed! Now, my dear fellow, as pleasantries are behind us, let me tell you why I am here.”

„That would be marvelous,” the hobbit muttered, smoke curling sluggishly away from the corner of his mouth.

Gandalf ignored his comment and sat beside Bilbo on the little bench. It was too small to host someone of Gandalf's size, and so Bilbo found himself almost plastered to the wizard's side. He scooted away, grimacing. If Gandalf noticed, he gave no sign of it.

„I'm looking for someone to share in an advent-”

„Absolutely not. Goodbye.” He stood up from the bench before Gandalf could protest and marched to his green door.

„It's about Smaug.”

Bilbo stopped midstep. His back stiffened, hand clenched around his pipe so hard he could feel the wood creak under his fingers. He turned around, very slowly, and looked at Gandalf with such fury the wizard fidgeted and his gaze darted away for a second.

„What did you say?” Bilbo asked, his voice eerily quiet. The wizard sighed, slumping a bit in his seat. He looked so old, so fragile, as if the weight of the whole world rested upon his shoulders.

„I said it's about-”

„Smaug, yes, I heard you. What of him?”

„If you would let me finish,” Gandalf snapped, loosing his patience,”I would be most happy to tell you. Now sit down, lad, and _listen.”_

Bilbo stared at him for a long moment. Then he huffed with amusement, taking his seat beside the wizard. „Rude,” he muttered. Gandalf ignored him.

„Now, I'm sure you have heard about Erebor.” Bilbo nodded. He had heard about the dwarven kingdom under the Lonely Mountain and its fall to dragonfire. Many dwarves traveled through Bree and the Shire to the Blue Mountains, working as smiths and tinkers to keep their families fed. The story of Erebor was well known among the Shire folk, but it was nothing but a tale to them - as far as the hobbits were concerned, the tragedy had happened in a far away land, so far in fact that it might not even be real. But Bilbo knew it was real, the dragonfire bringing death and ruin to all who crossed its path. He pitied the dwarves, but there was nothing anyone could have done. Smaug had taken the mountain, and in the mountain he would remain.

Gandalf's hand disappeared into the folds of his grey robe and when it came up again there was a yellowed parchment in his fingers. It was a map, a very old one at that, and Bilbo itched to take a look at it. He loved maps and books, often spending hours pouring over them, his gaze flickering over the mountain ridges, lakes and rivers, far into the East of the East, beyond the lines sketched carefully on a map. His heart pounded painfully in his chest at the memory of sand, hot from the scorching sun and shining like gold.

The wizard cleared his throat as if he knew what Bilbo was thinking about. Then, when he was certain he had the hobbit's attention once again, he spread the map in front of them.

„The Lonely Mountain,” Bilbo read. And there it was, a solitary peak among the flat planes of land, the once prosperous city of Dale sitting at its feet.

„The front gates are sealed shut,” Gandalf said, tapping his finger against strange runes at the bottom of the map, „but this here speaks of the hidden door leading into the mountain. And it so happens that I am also in possession of a key.” And here the wizard flicked his fingers and a sturdy key made of iron appeared in his hand. Bilbo looked at him calmly.

„You're not telling me you want to retake the mountain, Gandalf.” It wasn't a question.

„Oh, but I am. There are dwarves who had agreed to make the attempt. They are lead by one Thorin Oakenshield, of the line of Durin.”

„How many? Hundreds of warriors? Thousands?”

„Thirteen.”

Bilbo stared at the wizard in shocked silence. He barked out a startled laugh, but Gandalf did not join him in his amusement. The hobbit gaped.

„You cannot be serious! Gandalf, an _army_ would have a hard time trying to defeat Smaug, especially now when his hide is armoured with gold and gems he's been sleeping on! This is madness...”

„Should Smaug be left in peace,” Gandalf interupted him firmly, „a darker entity will eventually call for him. And he will obey it.”

Bilbo swallowed around a heavy lump that suddenly appeared in his throat.

„You... You don't think that He...”

Gandalf shrugged.

„I don't know. But there is darkness spreading in Greenwood from Dol Guldur, a foul sickness poisoning the forest. Thranduil and his kin have reported spiders being spotted among the trees, Ungoliant's children.”

Bilbo closed his eyes, swallowed. He shook his head.

„I am sorry, Gandalf,” he murmured, getting up again. The wizard gazed at him in silence, „but I cannot help you.”

„There will be a lot of gold in it for you, if you come with us.”

Bilbo snarled with sudden rage. His whole body shook with anger, fingers clenched into fists as if he was stopping himself from attacking the wizard. His eyes flashed a brilliant gold.

„I have no need for treasure,  _sharkû._ ” Black Speech burned his tongue and he felt bile rise in his throat.

Gandalf flinched as he spoke, visibly recoiling. Bilbo opened his mouth to apologise, but no sound came out. It was such a long time since he had spoken the language he almost forgot how foul it truly was. It did not belong in the Shire and yet _he_ was the one who spoke it in anger among the peaceful hills. He felt sick.

„Forgive me, my friend,” the wizard said quietly. „Forgive me, I did not think.”

„No, you did not. I think you should leave. Now.”

And Bilbo turned on his heel, stalking back to his home. Round green door shut behind him with a bang. Gandalf watched him go with a frown, but as the door slamed closed he smiled. He stood up and with his staff carved a single mark on Bilbo's beautiful, freshly painted door. It glowed blue when he gazed upon it, then disappeared.

The wizard's smile widened and he left, whistling cheerfuly as he walked down Bagshot Row. _It will be very good for Bilbo_ he thought. _And most amusing for me._

 

*

 

When the first dwarf invited himself into Bilbo's smial the hobbit fought the urge to grab the intruder by the beard and chuck him out faster than he could say „Erebor”. But Dwalin, as the dwarf had introduced himself before barging in and demanding food, was tall even for a dwarf and Bilbo had no illusions that he would be able to best him in his current body. So he bowed, though his blood boiled in anger, and gave the warrior his supper. The fish and potatoes were gone in a blink of an eye but before Bilbo could even get annoyed at the lack of manners, the doorbell chimed again.

„That would be the door,” said Dwalin gruffly, and Bilbo had no choice but to go and let another guest in. Balin, as it turned out, was Dwalin's older brother, and they both acted like the pantry, and indeed the whole smial, was at their disposal.

You musn't think that Bilbo was anything but a gracious host! He liked visitors as well as the next hobbit, but he would prefer to know his guests before they came visiting. And ate him out of his house and home! Of course, he tried to explain this to the dwarves but they seemed to be more interested in the state of his „mouldy” cheese than in what Bilbo had to say.

His anger swelled, too great to contain in his tiny frame. His eyes, usually green like blades of young grass in spring, turned gold. An ugly snarl twisted his featuress, and he was just about to rip the dwarves into tiny shreads when the bell rang. Again.

It shook him out of his anger somewhat, calming him enough to take himself under control. Huffing, but no longer driven by pure, undilated fury, Bilbo janked the door open for the third time that evening. Two dwarves stood outside, very young in comparison to Dwalin and Balin, and they bowed simultaneously. Bilbo felt himself sag slightly against the doorframe – they were hardly out of tweens, these two, the blackhaired one especially, and Bilbo had always had a weakness for younglings, no matter what race. Their eyes were bright with mischief, smiles wide and innocent, and the hobbit thought sadly that, even if they survive the journey and defeat Smaug (which was very, very unlikely), their easy grins and playful nature would be no more. They knew nothing of the world yet. They would learn soon enough.

Bilbo let them inside, resigned. They piled weapons onto him unceremoniously, warning him to be careful with them, „just had them sharpened”, and Bilbo's annoyance came back, though this time he was careful not to let it show. Too much.

As Fili, the dwarf with a smug face and blond moustache that Bilbo longed to pull to teach him some manners, deposited his weapons into Bilbo's unsuspecting arms the hobbit was almost tempted to throw them back in his face. But a small glint on one of the hilts caught his attention and he looked away from the lad and down, his eyes round like saucers. It was a gem, a small ruby glistening in the dimmly lit hallway. Bilbo swallowed, staring at the precious stone as if it was a poisonous snake. His tounge darted out, quick like a lizard's, to wet his suddenly dry lips. He could feel it, every single part of the gem as if it was a part of him – he could feel its comforting coldness, its shine, every curve and bend. Bilbo reached out, his finger almost touching the ruby but before he had the chance to feel the smooth surface against his suddenly flushed skin, the doorbell rang.

Bilbo dropped the weapons as if they burned, starring at his hands with horror. He closed his eyes, breathing in and out a few times, just to make sure he was once again in control of his urges, and then looked down again, fingers pressed agains his lips desperately. The ruby was very pretty, but he could no longer hear its call. He signed.

The doorbell rang again, longer and more insistent, and Bilbo rushed to open the door, muttering insults under his breath. He had only a second to jump out of the way before a group of dwarves, grumbling and cursing, fell onto his doorstep. Gandalf stood behind them with an amused grin lighting his wrinkled face.

Bilbo scowled.

Bofur, Bifur, Bombur, Dori, Nori, Ori, Oin and Gloin went to join the other dwarves in Bilbo's dining room after greeting their host and depositing their cloaks into his arms. Bilbo strained under the small moutain of cloth trying to balance them as well as he could, but finally gave up and let them fall to the floor. Without looking at Gandalf, that traitor, Bilbo picked each cloak, one after another, and hanged them carefully and neatly on the iron hooks near the door.

„What is the meaning of this, Gandalf?” he asked with a fake smile. The grin on the wizard's face stayed disgustingly pleased.

„Why, Bilbo, I hope we're not intruding! I merely hoped you would be kind enough to let us stay for the night at your little home- ”

„I would be kind enough,” Bilbo interupted, „if I knew you were coming. Or maybe I wouldn't. Who knows, since you haven't asked me in the first place!”

Gandalf put his staff into the corner near the door and took off his hat, letting it rest on top of dwarvish cloaks. His eyes were bright with something Bilbo would rather not try to decipher.

„Dear fellow, you have my most sinciere apologies! It must have slipped my mind.”

And with that, he passed Bilbo clapping him once on the shoulder and followed the others, greeting them with a cheerful shout

Bilbo shook with fury, his slight frame trembling with its force. He respected Gandalf, even liked him in his own way, but the wizard could be a damn nuisance when mood struck him. Or when he had a plan brewing under that pointed hat of his. Bilbo's eyes narrowed in suspicion as he entered the dining room. Trying to ignore the dwarves who were currenly all but destroying his house, which was no small feat, he looked at Gandalf with such intensity the wizards' eyebrows rose in question.

_I will not be a part of this folly, old man_ , he thought, his gaze never leaving the other's eyes. Gandalf smirked and inclined his head. Bilbo sighed.

When Belladonna's china started flying around the room, the hobbit exploded.

 

*

When he had arrived in the Shire (Gandalf said it would be safe, safe and peaceful, no danger, no pain, no blood, he _promised_ ) he fell, exhausted and weary, and slept for years burried in the warm ground. It wasn't sand, nothing would ever compare to his beloved sand; the earth under the little green hill where he crashed was too wet, too compact, but it was warm so he pushed away the feeling of utter despair and slept.

When he woke up, there were people about. Not Men, for Men were taller and more dangerous than the folk that had disturbed his rest. He opened one eye, hoping the hill he had claimed as his own would be enough to keep him hidden from sight. He was curious of the little people that mingled around, sitting on little benches and chatting merrily, carrying wood to and fro, tending to gardens, smoking, laughing, drinking...

They had built their houses _in_ the hills, he realized, holes in the ground with nice wooden floors, comfortable chairs and a warm hearths. Not that he cared for such things – his home had been in the golden sand, hot and dry, not this, never this, but his home was lost, taken, destroyed – but he couldn't stay under the hill forever. Someday one of those little people would realize what a fine hill it was and start digging, take it from him and he couldn't bear losing another home, as poor as it was. He couldn't kill them, he had promised Gandalf he would never harm another again, that was the deal. So he observed the little folk carefully for a day or so – he noticed their curly hair, their clothes, their pudgy cheeks, their round bellies and big feet covered in locks a tad darker than the ones on their head. He shifted under the cover of darkness, allowing himself to become this tiny, weak creature. He wept that night, fat tears rolling down his new cheeks; wept for his home and for his family; wept for his lost treasure, oh how he missed it, gold coins and precious stones glittering in the scorching sun, so warm against his body, his and only his. Wept for himself and the horrors he had endured.

When morning came, the little people found him asleep next to his hill. They gave him food and clothed him, helped him. They were curious people, he noticed, asking him all sorts of questions of where he came from, or his age, or his name. So he lied that he hit his head and didn't remember anything of import. They pitied him, this poor lost hobbit (for that was what the little people called themselves) with no memories nor family to care for him, and so they let him stay.

He built his home in the hill where he had crashed, hoarding books and maps instead of gold and gems. The only metal he allowed himself were iron, steel and, after a long consideration and because he couldn't quite stop himself, silver. It was easier to control his goldlust while in the hobbit form but he still slipped sometimes, like that one time when a little hobbit child came by with a lovely golden pin, a present from her grandmother („look, Mister, isn't it pretty”) and he had almost attacked this child, had nearly killed her for a little trinket. He refused to see anyone for weeks afterwards, not able to trust himself quite yet.

The hobbits started to become suspicious when time passed and he still remained the same – the same golden curls, shiny and healthy, the same complexion with no wrinkles to mar it, the same bright green eyes devoid of the dullness age brings – but while they knew he was no hobbit, not really, they accepted him. They did not chase him away from his hill, they did not shun him, did not start avoiding him. They were kind people, he realized, and accepting if sometimes a bit thickheaded and too curious for their own good. But he did not mind. He had a new name now, a name they had given to him, _Bilbo,_ and he had a home.

Then Mungo came and Bilbo became Bilbo Baggins.

Mungo was a gentle soul, so kind and generous, and he befriended him when everyone else was simply cordial, always somewhat distant. He came again and again to his smial for tea, chatting about the Shire and lands beyond its borders. Mungo became his family. His brother. His treasure to protect.

But Mungo died.

Mungo died and Bilbo Baggins was alone again. He mourned the loss of his family and treasure once more, grief making him unpredictable. He locked himself in his smial, refusing to come out for months. The hobbits worried, as they usually did, but dared not disturb him.

The blazing fire of grief subsided as time passed to a small flame of sadness and longing. He came out then, pale and half-starved. Life moved on. Bungo came by for tea often, so like his father in both looks and bearing, and Bilbo soon found himself caught in the same trap as with Mungo –Bungo was his now, his family to protect, his treasure. When the lad married Belladonna Took, Bilbo was overjoyed. The young couple planned children, _children_ , and Bilbo wept in his smial when they told him: his new family was growing, slowly but surely, and he was at peace. Finally, after so many years, he was at peace.

He should have known better.

He moved to Bag End after their deaths, as both Bungo and Belladonna had wished. He could not save them from illness but he could at least fulfill their wishes. He chased away the Sackville-Bagginses when they came to claim Bag End, since Bungo was their actual family. Bilbo had none of it. The Will was final. Bag End belonged to him.

Belladonna's precious china and Bungo's ganderning tools became his greatest possessions, his most beloved treasure, more valuable than all the silver in his house. They did not gleam in the sun, nor he could feel them like he felt gold, but each time he touched the delicate cups or sligltly rusty rake he could almost hear Bella's bright laughter and Bungo's deep chuckles, could almost feel their warmth as they leaned against him on the little bench outside the green door, the smell of Old Toby heavy in the air. And Bilbo swore to himself that he would never let anyone wiggle their way into his heart, not for all the treasure in the world.

He could not bear such pain again.

 

*

The dwarves were sitting quietly at the table.

The dishes were cleaned and stacked carefully into small piles, all forks and knives put safely into the drawers. No one said a word – even Dwalin, so ferocious a warrior, looked sheepish, a small furrow marring his face as he looked at their host.

Mister Baggins had screamed after he had noticed how carelessly they treated his beloved china set, and the dwarves felt something akin to shame. It was obvious the delicate cups and plates meant a lot to the little hobbit – his eyes went wide and terrified when he saw the dwarves juggle them with little regard for their vulnerability, his face white as a sheet. And then he had exploded.

His scream had been so loud they stopped to look at him in astonishment. The hobbit was seething, his small body shaking with rage, and Dwalin would have thought it was cute, like an angered kitten, if it were not for the sudden, stiffling heat that surrounded them, the very air sharp and dry like breathing in sand, choking them though they still draw breath.

„Put them down,” Bilbo Baggins snapped through clenched teeth, and they obeyed so fast the little dishes clattered on the table. Bilbo winced at the sound of china hitting wood but nothing broke and he took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them the strangling atmospehere vanished.

„Don't. Touch. The china,” the hobbit spat, turning around on his heel and stalking back into his kitchen. There was complete silence in the dining room. The dwarves sat down in their chairs, lightheaded. Dwalin almost collapsed into his seat, the wood moaning in protest under his weight. Gandalf watched them with amusement, but there was something else in his eyes Dwalin could not read. The wizard stood slowly and with a small chuckle he followed their host.

„What on Middle-Earth was that?” Kili muttered, his face pale. No one answered him. They waited in silence.

In the meantime, Bilbo stood in his kitchen with is hands clenched so hard he could feel his nails dig painfully into the soft skin of his palms. He forced himself to relax, rolling his shoulders to loosen tensed muscles. His eyes were closed, his face pale, nostrils widened as he took deep breaths through his nose to help contain his rage. A small cough behind him forced him to open his eyes. They flashed gold so quickly it was almost impossible to see. He turned around.

Gandalf was looking at him with one eyebrow rised, a small smile of amusement curling his lips. Bilbo gazed at him steadily, putting his hands on his narrow hips. They looked at each other for a long while, both assessing, calculating, waiting. Then the wizard chuckled. Bilbo answering smile held no humour.

„My dear friend, do not tell me you've started hoarding _china._ ”

Bilbo's eyes narrowed into angry slits.

„Better _china_ than gold,” he said .”Or people,” he added in a whisper. Gandalf looked at him with such pity Bilbo had to turn around. He did not want it. Did not _need_ it, least of all from the wizard.

The last time anyone had looked at him like that had been Belladonna after he had told her his story. She had held him in her arms then (not afraid of him in the least, though she had every reason to be), letting him sucumb to his grief for that short moment of weakness. He had wanted to be angry at her for pitying him, but he hadn't had the strength. She could not have possibly understood his grief, but her arms had been tight around his shoulders and her scent comforting in ways gold had never been. As he sat there in the kitchen in Bag End weeping in her arms like a child, Bungo had came up behind him and his hands, still a bit diry from working in the garden, wrapped around them both, pulling them to his chest. They sat like this until he could cry no more and then - as if nothing had happened, as if he was still the same hobbit and not what he _truly_ was – Belladonna had made tea in her delicate set and they sat and smoked and chatted long into the night.

But they died. Bungo and Belladonna were gone. Bilbo didn't need pity from anyone anymore.

„Why did you bring them here, Gandalf?” he asked, draggins his fingers through his curly hair, suddenly weary. He was tired. So very tired.

The wizard looked at him for a long moment in silence. He crouched so that he could look Bilbo in the eye, face was unreadable.

„Should Smaug awaken,” he said, his voice soft, „and he will wake, Bilbo, one way or another, He will call for him. The dragon must be stopped.”

„But you're not sure it's Him,” Bilbo insisted, desperation making his voice high. „You are not certain, Gandalf!”

The wizard shook his head, but his eyes were hard. „No, I have no proof that it is Him. But darkness has risen, Bilbo. I can feel it. And I know you can, too.”

Bilbo sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The wizard was right, of course. He did start to feel it, the weird itching under his skin, almost like a _call_. Something was coming and it was dark, the kind of darkness he had not felt for a long time.

„It has nothing to do with me,” he said stubbornly, crossing his arms on his breast. Gandalf huffed, irritated.

„You think so, old friend? Do you truly think He would simply let you go free? After Smaug, it will be your turn. He knows where you are and He will find you. The Shire will burn, the hobbits will die. You _know_ this, Bilbo.”

„What do you want me to do, then?!” Bilbo yelled, his eyes wild, desperate. „I cannot leave! If He knows where I am I cannot abandon the Shire, not when-”

„When what?!” the wizard interrupted harshly, his eyes dark with anger.

„Not when I can fight for them!”

Silence fell, thick and uncomfortable. Gandalf defleated a little, his shoulders hunched. Bilbo swallowed.

„You wouldn't be able to save them, Bilbo,” the wizard said gently, reaching out to clasp his hand on the hobbit's shoulder. Bilbo flinched. „You cannot fight Him alone. If He comes for you, you will not be able to protect the hobbits from both orcs and Smaug.”

„I can very well try,” Bilbo said, misery clear in his voice. Gandalf chuckled humourlessly.

„You would try and you would fail. The Shire will fall if we do not deal with Smaug before He summons him.”

To his horror, tears started pricking at the corners of his eyes. Bilbo growled, whiping his stinging eyes on the sleeve of his shirt harshly. Gandalf's hand was heavy on his shoulder, but comforting. Bilbo felt horrible.

„Gandalf, I'm sorry,” he said, ashamed, „about earlier, when I... when I said...”

The wizard patted him gently, shaking his head.

„Don't worry about it, old friend. I believe I deserved that. I did not think.” His kind face turned stern. „But try to control yourself around the rest of the Company. I doubt they would take kindly to Black Speech being spoken among them, even if they do not know it.”

Bilbo nodded and Gandalf withdrew his hand.

„You will come with us, then? Help defeat the dragon?”

Bilbo opened his mouth to answer, but a loud knock at his door stopped him. He glared at Gandalf and the wizard chuckled, shrugging. The hobbit sighed and when he opened the door, Thorin Oakenshield entered his smial.

*

_The nerve of that dwarf!_

Bilbo glared at the back of Thorin Oakenshield's head with all his might, silently hoping he could set his black hair aflame. But looks could not kill nor could they set things on fire, and so Bilbo settled for glowering angrily at the dwarf who had dared to call him a grocer. A _grocer_!

At first, when the green door had opened and the dwarf stepped into the smial, Bilbo's breath had caught in his throat. _What a beautiful creature,_ Bilbo had thought then, staring at the long, black hair streaked with silver like veins of pure mithril, the closely cropped beard, the deep blue eyes that pierced him to the spot. His spirit, already aggitated by the small ruby in one of Fili's daggers, seemed to settle when the dwarf's looked at him.

And then Thorin Oakenshield had to open his big mouth and put his foot in it.

_The nerve of that dwarf!_

Gandalf drew the map he had shown Bilbo earlier from his pocket and spread it on the table for everyone to see. Bilbo's eyes moved to it, staring at the map hungrily. Oh, what he would do to put his hands on it, feel the texture of the dry parchment between his fingers, smell the musty fragrance of old paper and ink. He sighed longingly and Gandalf shot him an amused look. Bilbo shrugged. He couldn't help it. He loved maps.

Thorin Oakenshield listened to the wizard speech about distant lands and solitary peaks with an air of a person who had heard it all before and was simply indulging the old man. But Bilbo noticed how the dwarf's thick fingers clenched around the spoon in his hand at the mere mention of Erebor, could see how his powerful shoulders stiffened when Gandalf mentioned Thrain and handed him the iron key. There was excitement in the air, a heavy anticipation, and Bilbo found himself drawn into it until Gandalf said: „The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth and no small amount of courage” and Bilbo interrupted cheefuly:

„And an army, don't forget about that.”

The dwarves feel silent. All fourteen pairs of eyes turned to look at him in astonishment. Bilbo scowled at the sudden attention.

„As I said, hobbit,” Thorin Oakenshield said through his teeth, „there will be no army aiding us.”

„Then we shall all die,” Bilbo snapped, his patience running thin. „No sword nor spear will pierce the dragon's hide. _Dwarf._ ”

Thorin rose from his chair slowly, tall and huge in comparison to the hobbit. There was fury in his dark blue eyes, but Bilbo had seen more intimidating people glower at him. He lifted his chin defiantly.

„What would you have me do then, Halfling,” the dwarf snarled, his fists clenching tightly.  
  
„Forsake this quest, _O King_ ,” Bilbo said, his voice hard as steel. „You will not succeed.”

Shouts and cries of denial filled the dining room as the dwarves rose to their feet, one screaming louder than the next, all looking at Bilbo as if he grew another head. Gandalf sighed, rubbing his forehead with his wrinkled hand. Thorin straightened to his full height, but if he thought he could intimidate Bilbo with this ridiculous display of power he had another thing coming. Bilbo let a smirk twist his lips in a parody of a smile and the dwarf growled deep in his throat.

Finally, after what felt like hours of screaming and yelling, Gandalf jumped to his feet.

„IF I SAY THIS QUEST CAN BE DONE, THEN IT CAN BE DONE!” he thundered, his voice terrifying. Even Bilbo startled at the tone of the wizard's voice – his eyes darted away from Thorin to Gandalf. He took an involuntary step back. A memory from long ago filled his head with pain and blood and despair. The last time Gandalf had used his power like this he was trying to save Bilbo's life, but instead of feeling safe agony ripped through his back and shoulders, a phantom pain he had not felt for a very long time. A memory of bright light on polished steel tainted with orcish blood and long blond hair dancing in the wind flashed before his eyes.

He clenched his teeth trying to control the urge to flee. Gandalf glanced at him briefly, apology clear in his eyes, and Bilbo forced himself to relax. Thorin was staring at him with suspicion.

„Gandalf, this is folly,” Bilbo said quietly when the dwarves took their seats again. „You know it is. We won't kill Smaug, it simply cannot be done!”

„That's why,” Gandalf said, „we will not even try.”

Bilbo's eyes widened in confusion.

„But... _what._.. Gandalf...”

„Bilbo is right. We cannot defeat Smaug without aid,” Gandalf continued. All eyes were fixed on him. „But there is something in the Mountain that can bring the armies of the dwarves together and answer our call.”

„The Arkenstone,” Thorin muttered, his attention finally drawn away from Bilbo.

„Yes,” Gandalf confirmed. „The Dwarf Lords of the seven families had sworn their loyalty to the King's Jewel. They will answer your call, Thorin, if you have it.”

Bilbo snorted.

„And you expect Smaug to simply give you the most precious stone _from his hoard?”_

Gandalf's eyes twinkled with mischief and Bilbo suddenly felt like he had made a huge mistake.

„Of course not. That's why we will need a Burglar.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sharkû (Black Speech) - old man


	2. The Golden Bead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-ed, sorry for mistakes/typos/grammatical errors

„You did not tell them.”

Bilbo was riding beside Gandalf, trying to keep his anger in check and failing miserably. They have been on the road for two  weeks now ,two awful weeks of sleeping on cold, hard ground, with little food, and... and _ponies._

It wasn't that Bilbo disliked the animals. Quite the opposite, he was quite fond of them despite his reaction to horse hair. But the ponies did not return his affections. They could smell him, his true form, and the first pony he had tried to mount bolted even before he could touch its flank. The dwarves had laughed as Fili went to fetch the animal and Bilbo sighed. He had tried again, and again, but none of the ponies would allow him to ride them. Well, not counting Myrtle. Myrtle had been spooked, yes, her eyes wide and scared, but she stood calmly enough when Bilbo approached her. He had stroked her soft nose, murmuring to her soothingly and she relaxed under his hands gradualy. She was a brave little steed.

„Did not tell them what?” Gandalf inquired, rising his eyebrows. His eyes were glittering playfully and there was an evident smirk lurking around the stem of his pipe. The wizard took a calm drag and released a perfectly round smoke-ring. Bilbo scowled.

„You know _what,_ ” he snapped and Myrtle startled under him slightly. He patted her neck, still glaring at the wizard. When there was no answer coming, he hissed: „About _me_ , you didn't tell them about _me_!”

Gandalf looked at him as if _Bilbo_ was the insane one. The hobbit narrowed his eyes dangerously.

„Well, of course not, don't be silly. They would have killed you on the spot.”

The hobbit rolled his eyes skywards in exasperation. _Confound those wizards and their meddling!_

They rode in silence after that, listening to the dwarves singing and laughing. Had Bilbo been in a better mood he would undoubtedly join in the merriment, despite the dark looks some of the dwarves (mainly Thorin and Dwalin) had been giving him. They still could not quite forgive him for what had happened back at Bag End, but he was determined not to apologise – after all, he had been in the right. But the young princes and Bofur seemed pleasant enough and they quickly warmed to the hobbit, often including him in their conversations. And, indeed, pranks. Gloin had been more than happy to talk to him about his beloved family, and Oin's knowledge of herbs and their uses could be compared to Bilbo's, which was not a small thing. He had even had a lenghty discussion with Balin about the law system of the Shire which he had enjoyed greatly. Balin was old, yes, but his mind was sharp and witty, and Bilbo found himself seeking the dwarf's company more often, much to Thorin's displeasure.

Bilbo grimaced with distaste.

Thorin Oakenshield was the most infuriating dwarf Bilbo had ever met and that was saying something. Indeed, Bilbo was ready to swear that the King was the most infuriating creature that had ever walked the Middle Earth! _His arrogance and pride will be his downfall_ , Bilbo thought, his eyes boring into the back of the dwarf's head. Over the days they had been riding the King spoke maybe a dozen of words to Bilbo, all of them gruff and unpleasant, sometimes downright insulting, and he was sick of Thorin's attitude towards him. He was not a servant and he did not take kindly to anyone who dared toorder him around. Judging by the low growl at the back of his head, neither did his spirit.

But two could play that game.

Thorin turned, his eyes looking from each and every dwarf as if he was checking whether everyone was there. Then his eyes landed on the hobbit and he scowled nastily when he noticed Bilbo's eyes fixed on him. Bilbo smiled sweetly, knowing it would anger the dwarf even more, and turned back to Gandalf. The wizard was watching him with amusement.

„You know that Smaug is familiar with my scent,” he said quietly and the wizard nodded.

„Yes, I suspect he might be. But he will not expect you and that will give us an element of surprise.”

Bilbo sighed.

„We're all going to die,” he muttered. Gandalf laughed hearthily.

„My dear Bilbo, I'd never have thought you would be so pesimistic! Have faith!

The hobbit rolled his eyes, lips stretching into a small smile. He sobered quickly, however, and his eyes turned anxious.

„Gandalf, do you truly think we can do this?” he asked, desperation clear in his voice. „The Shire...”

„Is safe,” the wizard said firmly. „Do not fear, my friend. The Shire is safe.”

Bilbo nodded slowly. Yes, the Shire was safe. But for how long?

 

*

 

The incident with the trolls had been... unpleasant.

Bilbo struggled to wipe as much troll-snot off of his jacket as he could but it seemed that his efforts were a lost cause. The gooey substance clung to his clothes stubbornly and no matter how hard he pressed his handkerchief to the cloth it would not give. He sighed mournfully. He _really_ liked that jacket.

He still could not wrap his head around the fact that he had let Kili and Fili get him into that mess in the first place. He should have known better than try to take on three hungry trolls by himself, but they had had Myrtle, his sweet, brave little pony, and there had been no time to fetch the rest of the Company. Thorin had yelled at him for that afterwards, Bilbo shouted right back, and the King stomped away furiously to scream some more at his nephews. The princes had looked properly chastised after the dwarf had finished chewing them out. As soon as their uncle had turned his back, they launched themselves at Bilbo, apologies spilling from their lips in an almost incoherent babble.

While _His Majesty_ had deemed it best to ignore the hobbit after their fight, the Troll Incident convinced the other dwarves of Bilbo's worth for the Company. They warmed up to him quickly after that, (except for Dwalin who still glared at him suspiciously whenever their eyes met) clapping him on the shoulder in thanks and proclaiming „yer alright, laddie, yer alright”. Bifur had grunted at him in Khuzdul and reached out to ruffle his hair in thanks. Bilbo was hard pressed not to slap the hand away, but he stood still, allowing the other dwarves express their thanks though small touches as well.

The hobbit sighed, rubbing the piece of cloth that was once Bofur's pocket against his waistcoat in a vain attempt to make himself look a little bit more presentable. Bilbo had reassured the boys that he was fine, but they kept shooting him worried glances whenever his face scrunched in pain as he rubbed along his arms – the trolls had grabbed him roughly enough to leave bruises, but not enough to truly hurt him. Oin had looked him over anyway, of course, coating his bruised arms in ointment as he grumbled to himself about irresponsible, foolish halflings. Bilbo's temper stirred at the insult but he stiffled it quickly – Oin was simply worried about him and his bedside manner was far from pleasant when he was concerned.

Thorin and Gandalf went into the troll cave some time ago and the rest of the company waited for them impatiently. The adrenaline from being _almost eaten alive_ had gone, leaving them weary and exhausted. And hungry. Oh, so very hungry.

Bilbo could hear his stomach rumble at the thought of food and he grimaced. He should not have left the Shire. What was he thinking, leaving on a quest that would probably end with all of them dead even before they reached their destination. He did not belong in the wild with the company of thirteen dwarves and a wizards; his place was in the Shire, at Bag End, in his comfortable chair, with a good meal and a warm hearth. Protecting the land he had learned to love and that loved him in return.

Bilbo sighed heavily, running his fingers through his hair. He shut his eyes, leaning back a bit to feel the sunlight on his face. It was not as hot as he liked, not even close, but he was used to mild climate due to his long stay in the Shire. It was hard at first to adjust to differences in temperature. The concept of seasons had been completely alien to him and when winter had come to the Shire for the first time he was there, awake and in his new hobbit body, Bilbo had though he was going to die of cold. He had been used to the scorching sun of the desert, to hot sands and dry air, not to wetness and freezing cold.

Even though he had been a hobbit for a long time, he still reacted poorly to the cold. He was weaker, slower, his senses were dulled. Bilbo shuddered at the memory of Fell Winter. If it hadn't been for his state then, this weakness of his, Belladonna and Bungo would be still alive. He was too tired, too _weak_ to help them. He could not save them and so they died. Because of him.

Bilbo swallowed the heavy lump in his throat and opened his eyes. Gandalf stood in front of him, holding a small sword. He handed it to Bilbo without a word, his blue eyes boring into Bilbo's as if the wizard could read his mind. Bilbo averted his gaze, looking down at the sword. He drew it slowly from its sheath. It was of Elven make, from Gondolin, and Bilbo almost dropped it. He whiped around to look at the wizard but Gandalf gave him a stern look, saying: „You would not wish for a finer blade. It glows blue whenever orcs or goblins are nearby.” Bilbo had a feeling the wizard had to say that before, possibly to Thorin judging by the beautiful, clearly elvish weapon strapped across the dwarf's back and the displeased frown on his face.

The rest of the Company was looking at him in puzzlement. Bilbo returned the little sword into its sheath, scowling. He was glad to see there were no gems on its hilt, nor gold. He shrugged, tying the weapon to his belt.

„Not overly fond of elves, are we, Master Baggins?” asked Bofur, slidinig in next to him. He grinned cheekily and Bilbo found himself returning the smile. Bofur had the uncanny ability to lighten his mood, no matter the circumastances.

„The last time I had seen one of them was not what I would call pleasant”, he answered. Bofur looked curious and he opened his mouth to inquire further but a sled led by rabbits burst through the bushes. Radagast the Brown stopped in front of Gandalf, rambling about his forest and spiders. The hobbit stiffened when Radagast's eyes landed on him, widening so comically Bilbo fought the hysterical urge to laugh.

„It... Gandalf, it's...”

„Calm youself, Radagast,” Gandalf muttered hastily, passing the other Maiar his pipe. Bilbo rolled his eyes. Wizards and their pipe-weed, truly...

Radagast forgot all about him, it seemed, for he started rambling again. When he said „Dol Guldur”, however, Bilbo's head whiped towards him with such speed he winced in pain. Radagast was showing something to Gandalf, and the hobbit did not have to see it to know what it was: a Morgul blade. He remembered it, could feel its dark power, the echo of its malice reverberating through his bones. It whispered to him, promising the Servant was near, he will come and call for him and soon they will be united again, the pet and his Master...

Bilbo shuddered, his face turning white.

„Ye alright, laddie?”

It was Gloin, his hand a steady weight on Bilbo's shoulder, and he leaned into the touch. It anchored him somewhat, helping to clear his mind.

„Yes, yes, quite alright. I just-”

A howl of a warg interrupted him. It was close, very close. Ori said the ponies had bolted and Bilbo bit his lip, thinking about poor Mytle. He hoped she would not end up as a warg's meal.

But then they were running and all thoughts of ponies and meals disappeared from Bilbo's mind. The Morgul blade, wrapped in cloth and strapped to Gandalf's belt, was silent.

 

*

 

„The Halfling's up ta somethin'.”

Thorin grunted in response, steadily cleaning Orcrist with sure strokes. Dwalin sat down beside his King and watched him for a moment in silence, his eyes full of suspicion. When Thorin failed to acknowledge his words further he scowled, brow furrowed.

„I told ye what he did back in the Shire. The thing with,” Dwalin moved his had in a vague gesture as if he couldn't find the words to express himself properly, „that _china_ of his.”

Thorin nodded, deep in thought. Putting down the oilcloth, he took up his whetstone and brough it to the blade. He knew sharpening Orcrist was pointless, as elvish steel never dulled, but he found the chore soothing, even if he had complained about it as a dwarfling. He had grown to appreciate the work, eventually – it helped him think, focus on something other than problems, take his mind off of things he would rather not dwell upon.

Like, in this instance, Mister Bilbo Baggins.

Thorin grimaced, his eyes snapping up to look at the Burglar. The hobbit was sitting with Bofur and Bombur, his eyes crinkled with mirth while the toymaker gesticulated wildly along to his grand tale, lips stretched in a wide smile. At first glance there was nothing suspicious about him – he was ordinary, so very average that if Thorin had not known him and happened to pass him somewhere along his travels he wouldn't spare him a second glance. And yet there was something about the halfling that kept him on high alert. Thorin had always trusted his instincts and he thought himself to be usually a good judge of character, and while he knew that the hobbit was a decent enough, if a bit spoiled and _annoying_ , he couldn't quite shake off the feeling that there was something odd. Unnatural. But he could not for the life of him figure out what it was. The hobbit was... well, a hobbit. His manners were impeccable, though traveling seemed to make him worse for wear – he was more snappish after a few nights spent sleeping on the hard, cold ground, but whenever he lost his temper he immediately apologized, looking so ashamed of himself that denying him forgiveness would be akin to kicking a pup. Of course, he never sought _Thorin's_ forgiveness for his impertinence. The hobbit appeared to be quite content ignoring the illustrious leader most of the time, seeking instead company of the other dwarves. Not that Thorin _wanted_ the halfling's company, of course. The very idea was preposterous. But to Thorin's dismay, the other dwarves had quickly warmed up to the Burglar, despite their initial suspicion after the memorable encounter in Bilbo's dining room. After the rest of his company had gone to sleep that night, Dwalin had sat beside Thorin and proceeded to tell him about the hobbit's reaction to his china being thrown around the house with little care for its delicateness. While the anger had been an understandable reaction to such behaviour, Thorin was hard pressed to figure out how the hobbit had managed to bully the dwarves into submission. Maybe the dratted wizard had something to do with that? He was a meddler, after all, probably had a lot of little tricks up that grey sleeve of his, and Dwalin did say there was a weird atmosphere in the air when Bilbo had snapped...

Dwalin elbowed him in the side. After carefully putting Orcrist down, Thorin retaliated with a light punch of his own. They squabbled for a while and were it not for Balin who looked at them disapprovingly from across the room, they would have continued into a less gentle roughhousing that would almost certainly end up with one of them bleeding. Thorin released Dwalin's arm which he was about to twist, pinching him instead. The warrior grunted, massaging his shoulder, but he was grinning and Thorin ralized guiltily that it had been a long while since he had spent some time alone with his best friend.

„So, the halfling?” Dwalin muttered, nodding towards the hobbit. Thorin frowned.

„What about him?”

Dwalin sighed so longsufferingly Thorin had to fight a grin away from his lips. The other warrior scowled.

„He's up ta somethin', him and that loony wizard!”

Thorin glanced at the Burglar who was telling a tale of his own now, the other dwarves listening attentively. Even Oin sat near him with his ear trumpet ready, squinting as he tried to hear all the words. The hobbit indulged him by rising his voice a little, and the healer nodded in thanks. Kili and Fili were sitting side by side close to the Burglar, their faces so full of awe and wonder that for a second Thorin wanted to go to them and listen to the story that had them so engrossed. He shook his head with a scowl, banishing the silly thought. He had no interest in the hobbit's tales anyway.

As for Gandalf, the wizard was nowhere to be seen. Plotting with Elrond, no doubt.

„'sides,” Dwalin continued in hushed voice, „did you see the tree-shagger's face when he saw the Burglar?”

Thorin had seen Lord Elrond's reaction to the halfling, of course he had, but trying to come up with an explanation for this queer behavour had only given him a headache. The elf had no reason to dislike the hobbit, and yet his face twisted with contempt when he had laid his eyes upon him. Maybe the reaction had been to the Company in general, not only the hobbit? That would certainly make more sense, though for some reason Thorin was not quite convinced that was the case.

„What do you suggest we should do, then?” Thorin asked, fiddling with one of his braids. The heavy, golden bead at its end glittered in the lamplight.

Dwalin shrugged, but his face scrunched in thought. Again, Thorin fought back a smile at the sight.

„Not sure,” the warrior admited after a while, shaking his head. Thorin watched him for a moment in silence, then sighed heavily.

„I suppose we'll have to wait and see,” he said, „but if the wizard thinks he can keep secrets that could endanger this Company he has another thing coming.”

Dwalin chuckled darkly, clenching his fists. „And you think he will just answer all your questions? I though you were s'pposed to be the smart one, princess.”

Thorin swung a punch but the other dwarf jumped out of the way, crackling merrily. „Come, come, Your Majesty, no need fer violence!”

„If he will not,” Thorin seethed, getting to his feet, „I will make the hobbit talk.”

Dwalin nodded, looking thoughtful. Then he shook his head with a faint smirk.

„Not a chance, the halfling hates ya. He'll tell ya squat.”

The thought that the hobbit loathed him stirred something uncomfortable in his chest, but he pushed the odd feeling aside. Not the best time to get distracted, after all.

„Then you talk to him,” Thorin growled.

Dwalin hooted with laughter. „Wha', me? Ye must be jokin', my lady. I'm not exactly the type he'd be willing to spill all his sweet secrets to.”

The King closed his eyes in a silent plea for patience, fighting the urge to grab Orcrist and take Dwalin's beard for his cheekiness. He rised his chin haughtily, trying to stare Dwalin down. It didn't work, exactly, since they were almost the same height and his friend only smirked in answer, but it made him feel better.

He looked around, his eyes tracking each member of his company with ease – Kili and Fili were chatting and giggling with Bofur; Bombur was nibbling on something near Bifur and Balin who were speaking quietly, Bifur's hands alive as he grunted in harsh Khuzdul and gestured in Iglishmek when some of the words escaped him; Oin appeared to be napping, his snores interupted by Dori and Nori's hissing arument over poor Ori's head about something or other - probably Nori's „profession” if Thorin knew them well enough; Gloin was sharpening his weapons, his eyes focused intently on the movement of whetstone against the blade of his axe.

Where was the Burglar?

Thorin turned to look at Dwalin and opened his mouth to ask the very question, but his friend was already stomping away to his bedroll, growling at Nori as he passed the squabbling brothers. The thief's answering smile could only be called beatific and the old warrior's hands clenched into tight fists.

Where was the Burglar?

Thorin huffed out an annoyed breath, collecting Orcrist and strapping it to his belt. In Rivendell they might be and away from the orcs, but elves were trecherous folk and it would be wiser to be prepared for all possibilites. Should Elrond try to detain them, he would know the wrath of the dwarves.

Moving silently, Thorin exited the chamber where they had made their camp. Of course, the Company had been given their own rooms, but the dwarves knew better than accept more help from the elves than neccessary. They were comfortable as they were, close to each other and with their weapons at hand should they need them. Thorin smirked, imagining Elrond's face when he discovers what happened to some of his furniture. They made quite a fire, those elvish chairs and tables.

Thorin wandered the quiet halls, looking around for any sign of the hobbit. The blasted Halfling was a sneaky little thing, so light on his feet he was almost impossible to hear, so the King strained his ears, hand resting gently on the hilt of his sword.

He heard a quiet murmur of voices to his left. Frowning, he made his way over to the wide door as silently as possible, and nudged it gently. The door opened with surprising smoothness, the crack big enough to let him peek inside. It was a library, a very beautiful library at that, with swirling staircases that seemed to go up for on and on, only to disappear in the darkness. Bookshelves as tall as trees lined the walls of the library, interupted only by narrow balconies, books stored neatly in their proper place. Thorin longed to pull one out, just enough for the spine to show, so perfectly they were put on the shelves. There were chairs and small tables in the middle of the room, and fire cracked merrily in the fireplace, bathing the library in soft light. It was very pretty, Thorin decided, but nothing compared to the library in Erebor, with its grand balconies and four enormous statues holding the ceiling on their shoulders as if they were protecting the whole construction from collapsing.

A quiet but firm voice interrupted his musings and his eyes turned to look at two figures standing by the fireplace. One of them was Lord Elrond, his body casting a long shadow upon the marble floor. He was talking to Gandalf and their voices, while very quiet, were heated as they argued.

„ -bringing it here, Gandalf, what were you thinking...”

„Truly, my friend, there is no need to be alarmed...”

„No need? No _need_? Have you completely taken leave of your senses? Were Glorfindel here...

„Elrond-”

„No. No, I cannot allow it. _It_ _must leave_ , Gandalf!”

„And we will, as soon as we can, and I promise to never bring him to Imladris again. But we need your _help_. And Radagast has found something...”

The conversation went on, but Thorin could not hear what was being said. He growled, frustration and anger boiling his blood. How dared Gandalf lie to him? How dared he endanger his Company? It was obvious that Gandalf was in possession of something that had frightened the Elf-Lord, and had brought it along on the quest. Was the dratted wizard completely insane?

„It's rude, you know,” said a quiet voice behind him and Thorin swivelled around, fingers grabbing Orcrist's hilt. The Burglar stood before him, a pipe in his hand, eyebrows raised.

„What?” Thorin snapped, letting go of his sword. It wouldn't do to murder the hobbit, no matter how much he wished to sometimes.

„Evesdropping. It's rude,” the halfling clarified, gesturing at the open door to the library. The King scowled.

„The wizard is hiding something from us,” he snarled, taking a step towards the hobbit. Bilbo remained in place, taking a thoughtful drag of his pipe.

„Well, of course. He _is_ a wizard, after all. His secrets have secrets.” His voice was so sure, so annoyingly patronizing that Thorin fought the urge to throttle the damn creature. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

„You know,” he accused, pointing his finger at the Burglar, who _shrugged. „_ What is it? What danger does it pose to my Company?”

„I do know what it is,” the hobbit said calmly. His eyes flashed in the darkness and Thorin thought he saw a glint of gold among bright green. He shook his head, trying to clear it. „And I assure you, it isn't dangerous. At least not to you or your dwarves, _Your Majesty_.”

„Tell me then,” the King demanded, taking another step forward. They were standing close, very close, almost chest to chest, and Thorin could smell the sweet fragrance of the hobbit's pipe-weed. Old Toby, was it not how he had called it?

The curly golden hair moved as the Burglar shook his head.

„Gandalf thinks it's not neccessary to inform you. Actually, for once I agree with him. You need not know of it, O King, at least not for now.”

Thorin growled, fury clawing at his chest. He hated when the halfling refered to him as such, the mocking tone of his voice driving him mad with anger, and he snagged the impertinent creature by the lapels of his waistcoat, curling his fist in the soft fabric and bringing them even closer. Their noses were inches apart, the Burglar's hot breath grazing his mouth and chin, and yet the hobbit did not seem afraid. He looked at Thorin steadily, one eyebrow rised in question.

„You will tell me _now_ ,” Thorin snarled, but the halfling was not looking at him anymore. Instead, his eyes seemed to be drawn to one of Thorin's braids, his eyes wide as saucers.

„Is that...?” he murmured, reaching out to touch the golden clasp. The king yanked his head back before his small fingers could make contact and the hobbit's eyes snapped up to meet his. Colour bled away from his face then, leaving it sickly palce, and the Burglar struggled wildly to get free. Thorin let him go, stunned. The hobbit was breathing harshly, fist pressed to his heaving chest, and he swallowed thickly. The dwarf watched him take a deep breath, then another. The halfling straightened. He was still deathly pale but seemed to regain some of his composure as he bowed to the king politely.

„Excuse me, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice shaking. Before Thorin could grab him again and shake the answers out of him, the hobbit disappeared around the corner. He took a step to follow but the door to the library opened and he cursed, dashing back the way he came from to avoid being caught.

_Mahal damn halflings and their secrets!_

 

_*_

„It will not work, Gandalf!” 

 

„My dear fellow, if you would just calm youself-”

 

„No! No, I will _not_ calm myself, Master Wizard! This plan of yours is a folly, it will not work!” 

 

„Bilbo, calm down and tell me what happened!”

 

Bilbo leaned forward, bracing himself with his palms on his knees. He breathed deeply, trying to stop the tremors wrecking his body. His true form clawed at him, demanding gold, demanding  _blood,_  the desire to _possess_ almost overwhelming, and he choked out a painful sound very much like a sob. A large hand settled on his shoulder, grounding him. He breathed in silence for a moment, composing himself as well as he could. Terror ran through him in steady waves, rendering him speechless. Thorin's shocked face flashed in his mind and, for some reason, his spirit cooed mournfully at the back of his head.

„I... Gandalf, _please_...”

„Peace, my friend,” the wizard murmured, tightening his hold on the halfling. Bilbo shook his head to clear it, hair falling into his eyes with the movement. He brushed them back with a shaking hand.

„You want me to go into that mountain,” he said in a whisper, wrapping his arms around his middle, „but I cannot. I _cannot_. The gold...”

The wizard took in a sharp breath, crouching to look Bilbo in the eye. He shook his shoulder gently.

„What did you do?” he asked, urgency clear in his voice.

„Nothing, I did nothing,” the hobbit hastened to assure, but his eyes dropped to the floor to avoid the wizard's gaze. „But... Thorin's beads, they're made of gold, and I... I almost... _Gandalf_...”

The hand on his shoulder tugged him forward delicately and Bilbo burried his face in the folds of the wizard's robes, shuddering like a new-born fawn. Gandalf's hand stroked his hair, calming him almost insantly, and Bilbo wondered absently whether he used magic to settle his raging spirit.

„Come, come, Bilbo,” the wizard murmured, his voice soothing, „no need to worry about it now. We're still quite a way from our destination. We will cross that bridge when we get to it.”

„I cannot do this,” Bilbo whispered into the grey robes. „I can't. I won't be able to control it, there will be too much gold.”

Gandalf squeezed him tighter for a moment before letting go. His face was gentle, a smile gracing his lips as he looked at the hobbit, and Bilbo felt ashamed of himself. The wizard spoke again before he could say anything:

„You are a lot stronger than that, Bilbo Baggins. You must trust your heart.”

The Halfling laughed humourlessly, taking a step away from Gandalf. „My heart is a twisted thing, Gandalf, dark and cruel. How can I trust it?”

The wizard looked sad, so very sad, and the hobbit swallowed, looking down at his feet.

„There is more to you than you imagine, Bilbo.”

The hobbit only shook his head in answer, not trusting himself to speak. Gandalf claped him on the shoulder once more, mischief shining in his eyes, and he left the hobbit alone on the little balcony where Bilbo had dragged him after the wizard bid Lord Elrond goodnight.

The hobbit pursed his lips in thought, gazing blankly at the beauty of Imladris. He shook his head after a while and went inside.

He did not sleep that night.

 


	3. Of Songs and Tempers Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ori is a darling, Bilbo thinks Glorfindel is a douchebag and Thorin looses it completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I have said I'll be doing weekly updates, but I have writen another few pages and I feel so good about myself that I have decided you might enjoy another chapter. 
> 
> Just this once, mind you.

They had left Rivendell like thieves in the night.

Ori sighed mournfully, struggling to keep up with the rest of the Company as they marched up and away from the Hidden Valley. It was such a beautiful place, with ornate buildings and an atmosphere of utter peace surrounding them that Ori felt a painful twinge in his gut at the thought of leaving it. The very air had seemed to be heavy with magic when he had wandered Lord Elrond's home and gardens, sketching away in his little notebook. It felt as if Rivendell was a relic from the past, made to endure, constant and unchanged, and at every corner the young dwarf had expected to find a hero of old striding down the corridor with his armour polished to high shine, gleaming in the sunlight.

But they left before Ori could fully appreciate the glory of the Elven city, and to say that he was disappointed was an understatement. He had not even seen the main library, though he heard how grand it was from Gandalf himself (who stayed behind to distractr the Council as they fled), and the thought he would probably never have the chance to see it filled him with such sadness he found himself sniffling into his sleeve.

„Are you well, Master Ori?”

He peered at the hobbit who was walking beside him, and wiped his eyes hastily. The halfling's face was bright red from the trek up the steep path and sweat gathered on his forehead and temples, hair sticking to the wet skin. There was concern in his eyes as he gazed inquiringly at Ori, and the dwarf nodded to reassure him. He was being silly, after all, crying like a babe about some _books_. Oh, but how he had dreamt to peruse the ancient tomes in the Rivendell's library at leisure, maybe meet the great Balrog Slayer himself. He did not realize he was babbling all of this out loud until his eyes landed on the hobbit, who was frowning a little.

„While it's true that the library is very grand, both in beauty and the ancient tomes kept there” the Burglar said with a grimace, „I have to admit I'm quite glad Glorfindel had somewhere else to be.”

„You've met him, then?” Ori asked eagerly, his wide eyes full of awe.

„Oh, yes,” Bilbo muttered, cursing himself for saying too much.

„What is he like?” the dwarf inquired almost bouncing as they walked, so excited he was to hear more about his hero. He had always loved hearing tales about Glorfindel, especially his defeat of one of the Balrog, about his beauty and courage, and to hear more of him from someone who had met the great warrior was a treat on its own.

„Well,” the hobbit started, hesitant, scratching his golden head. Ori watched him with anticipation and he sighed deeply, relenting. „He's a great warrior, I admit, and I cannot think of words that would describe his beauty and do it justice. But he's also the one of the most exceptionally stubborn and pompous _twats_ I have ever had the misfortune to meet„ Bilbo's voice rose steadily as he spoke with anger and resentment. Ori's eyes widened when the hobbit rambled on what an egoistical prat Glorfindel was, his small body shaking with rage. „Oh, and don't get me started on Asfaloth, that evil _beast_ of a horse, why, I should have...”

He fell silent after that, his breath harsh and quick. Ori glanced at him, worried about the Burglar and his sudden outburst. Master Baggins was usually so friendly and well-mannered that seeing him lose his temper and speak ill of someone was unsettling. The young dwarf wrung his hands, unsure what to do. The hobbit's face was like thunder – he was probably recalling his meeting with the elven hero. Ori swallowed.

„If he's such a horrible person,” he started shyly, „then I'm happy I did not meet him.”

Bilbo looked at him with astonishment for a moment. Then he laughed, loud and genuinely amused, clapping the dwarf on the arm. Ori smiled thinly.

„Oh, I'm sure Glorfindel would have been delighted to make your acquiantance,” the hobbit assured him. „He's a pleasant enough fellow, I suppose, though he had never warmed up to me personally, nor I to him.”

What and understatement that was! Bilbo struggled to keep his distaste from showing on his face as he spoke of the elf, but he knew he was failing miserably. His lips pressed into a tight line to keep him from saying anything else to Ori. It would be unwise to babble out all his secrets to a _dwarf,_ of all races, no matter how nice and polite he was. Should he tell Ori why he disliked Glorfindel so, the young scribe would no doubt grab one of his knitting-needles and stab Bilbo in the eye.

It had been such a long time since he thought about Glorfindel in the first place that Bilbo found himself losing his temper at the very mention of the blasted elf's name. He was quick to anger, after all, like the rest of his race had been, and Glorfindel had always managed to rub him the wrong way. And that blasted horse of his!

When Bilbo had still been in his true form, half-dead from exhaustion and bloodloss, Glorfindel was first to draw his blade to finish him off. Were it not for Gandalf, the elf would have had killed him there and then. Bilbo remembered how his armour shone in the setting sun, red and orange against polished steel, bathed in orcish blood, his sword burning like a flame as he swung it high above his golden head to deliver the final blow.

The hobbit shuddered at the memory and Ori gave him a concerned look.

„I'm sorry for making you recall unpleasant memories, Master Bilbo,” Ori said lowering his eyes in shame. Bilbo chuckled, shaking his head. His small hand rested on Ori's shoulder and squeezed in reassurance.

„No, Master Ori, don't worry about it. While I've never liked Glorfindel, _you_ have no reason to do so. I understand why you admire him. He is a brave and mighty warrior, after all. Would you like me to try describe him to you, so you can sketch his portrait for your book?'

Ori agreed eagerly, taking out his little notebook and scribbling down every word with such concentration Bilbo fought to keep his laughter to himself.

He described Glorfindel as well as he could remember him, from his beautiful hair flowing like a golden river down his back, to his dark fierce eyes and regal bearing. Ori seemed to consume each and every word with such excitement Bilbo could not stop a fond smile from blooming on his lips. The childish hero-worship was endering, even if it was aimed at Glorfindel of all the people of Arda, and Bilbo felt a fierce protectiveness rise in his chest as he gazed at the young dwarf.

It was the same with Fili and Kili, the two young princes so full of innocent joy and mischief that Bilbo could not stop himself from wanting to shelter them from all evil. They were dear to him already, as was the rest of the dwarves, and he shuddered to think what he would do should they be in danger.

So much for his promise not to let anyone too close again.

If he were being honest with himself, he would admit he was even fond of Thorin, in an odd way. He did not like the dwarf - indeed, he wanted to punch him more often than not - but he respected him as a leader of their Company: Thorin inspired loyalty with such ease even Bilbo found himself drawn to it. He was honorable and brave, and cared about (almost) all of his Companions as any good leader should. 

The fact that he was quite childish in his resentment towards Bilbo was another matter entirely.

The King still continued being a spoilt brat about their last conversation in Rivendell, glaring at Bilbo whenever his eyes landed on the hobbit, but he did not approach him again. Bilbo suspected Gandalf had something to do with that and he was grateful that he did not need to speak to Thorin unless absolutely neccessary. He glanced at the leader marching up front, his hair spilled on his broad shoulders and back like a black curtain. The golden beads glittered, but Bilbo did not feel their pull and he sighed with relief.

Apparently, Elrond had been gracious enough to help them out with the map. Cirth Ithil was a tricky thing to find and even harder to read, but Fate, it seemed, truly favoured the Dwarf King and his Company: they arrived in time to read those blasted runes, and now the journey was going to be a mad run to reach the Lonely Mountain (and the _dragon)_ before Durin's Day was over.

His mood quickly turned sour as he thought about Smaug sleeping on piles upon piles of gold in Erebor. He knew slipping past the dragon (even in his hobbit form Smaug will be able to smell his spirit, he was sure of it) and stealing from his hoard was a difficult endeavour in itself, but he was more worried about the gold. It will call to him and Bilbo knew he will not be able to resist its pull, not without a Tamer.

What had Gandalf been thinking, bringing him on this quest?

What had _he_ been thinking when he agreed?

His hand landed on the hilt of his sword, the Elven blade whispering under his touch. He could feel faint traces of magic surrounding it - it reminded him of the pain brought by elvish arrows as they ripped into his wings, the agony weighing him down as he struggled to stay afloat and escape from the battlefield and his tormentors. The Battle of Fornost had been won, the Witch-King defeated and, after finally giving up and crashing to the ground in an exhausted heap, he had awaited his death at the hands of Glorfindel. With his armour bathed in orcish blood and his hair in disarray as he stood above him, the elven warrior had raised his sword with a grim expression on his beautiful face. He had been so weary, his true form worn out from the tortures he had endured and the battle he had been forced to fight, that he had been ready to greet death like an old friend. His family long dead, his home lost... he had nothing to fight for. So he had bared his neck where the flesh was softer and gazed at Glorfindel calmly. The elf's eyes had widened and his sword lingered in the air, but his face hardened again and muscles rippled under his armour and he braced himself to strike.

Gandalf had stayed the elf's hand then and saved his life. The wizard and the elf had argued over him, their forms going in and out of focus as he lay defenceless. Glorfindel had cursed and raged when Gandalf stood between him and his prey. The wizard's voice had reminded him of a great rumble of thunder, terrible and mighty, and finally the elf had given up and stomped away with an air of injured pride hanging about him. Years later they had met once more, Bilbo already in his hobbit form, and Asfaloth had almost trampled him to death, much to the elf's amusement. Sharp words might or might not had been spoken after that.

„Master Bilbo? Are you alright?”

Ori's timid voice brought him back from his memories and Bilbo realized they stopped for the night. The other dwarves were watching him, some with curiosity and some with suspicion (Thorin and Dwalin, as expected). Bilbo smiled, but it felt fake even to him.

„Quite alright, lad, quite alright,” he assured the dwarf hastily.

Ori thanked Bilbo prefusely for the talk, his cheeks flushed with excitement and fingers trembling with impatience to start drawing Glorfindel's portrait. The hobbit dismissed his thanks with a small wave, smiling thinly all the while. The rest of the Company went about their business of setting camp and getting a fire going, and Bilbo settled near Bombur to help preparing food.

The plump dwarf greeted him with a grin, gesturing towards rabbits lying near the log they sat on. The hobbit grimaced, but obediently skinned and gutted the animals with practiced moves. Removing bones was a bit more demanding job and Bilbo concentrated on it so deeply he did not notice when two dwarves sat on his either side, watching him with disturbed looks on their faces.

He glanced at Fili and Kili only when the lads shifted unexpectedly against him, almost making him lose his grip on the knife he was holding. The dwarves grinned, Kili leaning forward to get a closer look at the rabbit.

„You're very good at this, Master Boggins,” he said cheerfuly. „Skinned and gutted before, have ya?”

 _More like eaten whole_ , Bilbo thought grimly. He smiled at the young prince, getting back to work.

„We have plenty of game in the Shire, you know, and the hunters usually sell their catch whole, bones and all.”

That was not entirely true, as many hobbits prefered the animal to be already prepared for cooking, but Bilbo could not possibly tell the dwarves he found _skinning_ and _gutting_ relaxing. The lads watched him for a while longer but quickly grew bored when Bilbo did not indulge them with a story as he usually did when they stopped for the night.

Bofur shouted something to the princes and they sprung from the log so quickly Bilbo jerked back at the sudden movement, almost falling over. Bifur's hand shot up from his place near the fire and he snatched Bilbo's arm before he tumbled to the ground.

„Thank you,” Bilbo muttered, glaring at the young dwarves. They were hovering over Bofur, looking at something in his hand and sniggering. If Bilbo was going to find a frog in his bedroll again, then so help him...

Bifur grunted in answer, turning back to the block of wood in his hand. The hobbit watched him carve for a moment, making out a distinct shape of a wing and a tail, and he scooted closer, leaning forward to get a better look.

„What is it going to be?” he asked quietly. Bifur smirked, grunted something in harsh Khuzdul. When Bilbo shook his head, he sighed, then pointed at the fire and flickered his tongue like a snake. Bilbo's eyes widened in realization. „A dragon?”

The toymaker nodded, concentrating on the figurine. Bilbo's eyes tracked every movement of his hands, and if the dwarf found his interest irritating he did not show it. Instead, he turned slightly towards the hobbit, letting him take a closer look.

„May I buy it from you after you finish it?” the Burglar asked, unsure. Bifur glanced at him from under his bushy eyebrows. The hobbit seemed genuinely enthralled by the little toy already, though it was far from done. The dwarf nodded, muttering in Khuzdul. Bilbo frowned, not understanding.

„He says he'll give it to you,” Balin chimed in, stepping closer to the fire. The hobbit's eyes grew large and he shook his head vehemently, opening his mouth to protest.

„But-” he started, but Bifur nudged him with his heavy boot. A string of the gruff language emerged from his mouth again. Bilbo looked at Balin questioningly.

„Bifur says he doesn't take coin from friends,” Balin translated, his eyebrows rising, „and if you insist he will... oh dear, I do not think that's anatomically possible, dear fellow.”

Bilbo choked out a surprised laughter. Bifur simply shrugged, returning to work under Bilbo's watchful gaze. After some time, Bombur cleared his throat meaningfully and Bilbo jumped to his feet with a start, much to other dwarves' amusement. He handed over the rabbits, his ears burning red with embarrasment. Scratching his flushed cheek, he winced at the stickiness of his fingers and glanced down to inspect his hands.

They were covered in rabbit blood so dark it looked black against his pale skin.

He remembered the time when the sight and smell of blood excited him, when its taste flowing down his throat seemed like the most delicious of meals. Bilbo grimaced. He had lived so long as a hobbit that the very thought of tasting blood now made his stomach turn. He would not try it, no sir. Not without proper seasoning, anyway.

Muttering something about washing his hands in the stream, which was met with Bombur's disinterested grunt, Bilbo turned on his heel and marched towards the litte river that run among the trees, keeping his bloody hands as far away from his clothes as possible. Bloodstains were a pain to wash out, as Bilbo had found out shortly after starting building his old smial. It hadn't been an easy task, despite the help of other hobbits with planning and constructing his new home, as Bilbo had never even seen a hammer or a saw in his entire life, and his hands had quickly suffered his ignorance. He had cut himself by accident more times than he cared to remember, had almost lost his fingers due to an unfortunate incident with an axe while chopping wood (he still had a scar to prove it, thin pale line running across his whole left palm), and every time the blood from those accidents seemed to magically transfer itself onto his perfectly clean and respectable clothes.

Belladonna taught him how to remove blood stains with cornstarch but he had always hated the job, regardless.

Bilbo marched to the little stream, whistling a merry tune he had learned at the Green Dragon as he went. He loved hobbit songs, especially the ones about the land itself, but he had to admit that he himself had roared along to lewd songs in the pub after too many pints, good old Holman holding him by the back of his shirt when he had tried to climb the table on more than one occasion. Bilbo chuckled at one particular memory, an embarrased flush stealing onto his cheeks despite his amusement. He had been mortified the next morning, sure his good name had been ruined, but the hobbits seemed to warm up to him even more after the incident. For _weeks_ they had hummed the blasted song whereever he had appeared and Bilbo suffered through it with patience that surprised even him.

He crouched by the stream, plunging his hands into cold water with a shudder. He washed his hands quickly, watching the clear water turn red. He stayed there for a moment, eyes tracking the blood as it mixed with the stream only to disappear from sight completely.

He stood up with a groan, bones creaking as he straightened, and turned to trudge back to the camp. Bilbo could hear the dwarves laughing about something or other and he quickened his step – he knew Bombur would save him his portion of food, but it wouldn't be wise to linger and leave his bowl at the mercy of his hungry companions.

The Company sat around the fire, except for Thorin who sat some distance away, brooding as he kept watch, a bowl of rabbit stew laying untouched by his side. He was smoking, Bilbo noticed, white whisps of smoke curling around his blackhaired head like a halo.

The rest of the dwarves, Valar bless them, were laughing uproariously at whatever Bofur was saying, a bottle of something that looked like elvish wine passing from hand to hand. Bilbo sat down between Dwalin and Kili, gratefully accepting his dinner from Bombur.

The old warrior shot him a suspicious glare, clearly displeased with the arrangement. Bilbo ignored him, dipping his spoon into the stew and eating with gusto. He complimented Bombur on the food, despite the fact that he could probably make it better than the dwarf (he had years of practice after all), and the cook blushed a ruddy red, his chest puffed out with pride.

The hobbit ate and laughed at Bofur's jokes, readily accepting the bottle when Kili passed it to him. It _was_ elvish wine, strong and sweet, and Bilbo felt lighter after only a few rounds. Bifur started singing a merry melody in Khuzdul and the other dwarves joined him after a while, some of them clapping along as they sung. Judging by Ori's bright red cheeks it was something inappropriate and Bilbo laughed as the young dwarf hid his face behind his palms. Dori glared at the rest of the Company, trying to cover Ori's ears with his hands but the young dwarf batted them away with a scowl.

Dwalin, now completely ignoring Bilbo, roared along to the song so loudly the hobbit worried his ears got damaged. But he smiled despite himself – they had too few occassions to relax like that, always watching out for danger. In fact, Bilbo was surprised Thorin had not stepped in by now, glaring and growling about perils of the road. But the dwarf king stayed silent with his back towards the fire. The could just as well be made of stone, so stiffly he sat, but to Bilbo's amusement one of his booted feet moved along to the song, tapping the ground silently as he smoked his pipe.

Kili nudged him with the bottle and the hobbit turned his gaze away from Thorin. Elvish wine was very strong, almost as strong as Hamfast's moonshine, and the halfling soon felt its effect.

„Sing somethin' for us, Master Baggins,” Fili demanded with a slight slurr, leaning over his brother to peer at the hobbit. Bilbo shook his curly head, laughing.

„No, no,” he said, „not a chance, Master Dwarf! I've had my fill of drunken singing as a young hobbit, and let me tell you, it shall never happen again.”

A disappointed moan arose from the Company and Bilbo chuckled.

„Just one song, please!” Kili whined, his dark eyes huge and pleading. The other dwarves joined in, trying to convince Bilbo to sing. Dwalin, of course, remained silent. The hobbit sighed longsufferingly, but a grin stretched his lips as he thought of an appropriate tune. Though they only had a few bottles to go round and certainly not enough to get them more than slightly tipsy, the alcohol made him brave and he stood up, wobbling at the sudden change of position, and marched over to the side so that all could see him. The dwarves cheered, waiting for him to begin.

Bilbo's grin was positively feral.

He cleared his throat, pulled on his slightly dusty waistcoat to straighten the creases and opened his mouth to sing:

„ _A dragon has come to our village today._ _  
_ _We've asked him to leave, but he won't go away._ _  
_ _Now he's talked to our king and they worked out a deal._ _  
_ _No homes will he burn and no crops will he steal._ __”

On and on he sang, the dwarves at first clearly uneasy with the lyrics, then roaring with laughter as he reached the chorus, some of them singing along and bellowing: „Do virgins taste better than those who are not?”, the others clunching their sides and moaning in pain in between the bursts of helpless chortling. Bilbo grinned, his cheeks flushed from alcohol and merriment. He was pleased to see that even Dwalin, who had stubborny refused to warm up to him, was stomping his feet and bellowing out the words.

He would have continued into another song in response to Kili's pleading eyes, but as he opened his mouth to sing some more, Thorin Oakenshield stepped closer to the fire. He was not pleased.

„You think this is funny?” he growled.

The merriment ceased immediatelly, a thick and uncomfortable silence falling over them like a heavy blanket. The dwarves fidgeted, avoiding their leader's furious eye. Bilbo started at him in astonishment for a moment, but soon his temper raised its scaly head and he glared right back, hands on his hips.

“You think a _dragon_ invading a home and devouring a people is worthy of a song?” the King continued, his voice dark and terrible. “You dare to _laugh_ at such tragedy?”

“Oh, I dare fine, O King,” Bilbo shot back, his body tense like a bowstring. “It's merely a silly song, not to be taken seriously.”

Thorin stormed up to the halfling, seething with rage.

“A silly song, is it?” he spat, curling his finger into fists. “I wonder, would you sing such a merry tune had the dragon taken _your_ home and killed _your_ kin?!”

The Burglar shook with anger as he stared at the King, face pale.

“You know nothing of me,” he growled, pointing his finger at the dwarf's chest. “You know _nothing_ of my past, how dare you...”

“Remove your hand at once, you miserable creature,” Thorin snapped, “You're a spoiled, fussy halfling, who had never known anguish or hardship and that is all I need to know. You do not belong with my Company.”

The other dwarves gasped behind him, but his eyes were fixed firmly on the hobbit whose small face fell as his words hit home. The dwarf felt a stab of distress at the pained expression on the Burglar's face, but his anger quickly overtook the feeling.

Bilbo stared at the Dwarf King, speechless. His eyes filled with furious tears, but he refused to let them spill onto his cheeks. He would not cry before Thorin. He'd rather die first. Rage clawed at his chest then, sudden and unstoppable as his spirit's temper snapped.

“I am not a half of anything, _gazat flâgît_ ,” he growled. Black Speech burned on his tongue like acid but he ignored it, watching with grim satisfaction as the King flinched at the hateful sound he could not understand. The tone of his voice was clear enough to grasp its meaning, however, and the dark blue eyes turned almost black with fury. Bilbo stared in shock as the King rised his hand as if to strike him, the anger on his face terrible to behold. The hobbit felt his own rage disappear as quickly as it came when a memory of angonizing pain flashed through his mind, the taste of his own blood heavy on his tongue. He flinched away from the dwarf, covering his head with his arms in sudden fear, but before Thorin could strike, thick fingers wrapped around his wrist in an iron grip. The King shot a glare at Dwalin who stood behind him, as it was the old warrior who had stayed his hand. Dwalin's eyes were wide with shock. He stared at his friend, who was just about to _strike_ a creature smaller and weaker than him, as if he could not recognize him. Shame flooded the King then, the veil of rage falling from his mind, and he slowly lowered his hand until it hung uselessly by his side. Dwalin let him go but hovered nearby, watching Thorin's every move. It felt like betrayal, somehow, but Thorin nipped the thought in the bud. Dwalin was nothing but loyal to him, always had been. His devotion was not questionable.

The King looked at the hobbit who still stood before him, pale and shaking like a leaf. There was a haunted look on his small, beardless face as if he was remembering something truly horrific. His eyes were wide, but unseeing and blank as he stared at the dwarf's chest, his tiny hands crossed around his middle to protect his ribs and stomach.

Thorin felt sick.

“Master Baggins,” he started, his voice hoarse, but the hobbit flinched away from him as he spoke, closing his eyes and breathing harshly. His knuckles were white, so hard he clenched the fabric of his shirt.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin said again taking a step forward, arm outstretched to make amends, but before he could touch the halfling, a small hand darted out and slapped his own away.

“Don't touch me,” Bilbo whispered dully, “don't you dare touch me, you...” he stopped, taking a deep breath. “I came on this quest to help you reclaim your home,” he said, so quietly Thorin had to lean closer to hear him, “and so far you've repaid me with scorn and violence. I needed not come, Master Dwarf. Indeed, I would be happier in the Shire where I _belong._ ” Thorin flinched as if struck when Bilbo all but spat the last word.

“I did not mean...”

“Did you not?” the halfling demanded, rising his eyes to look at the King. There was rage there, but dulled as if strength had left his small body.

Thorin swallowed, opening his mouth to apologise, but the hobbit rised his hand to stop him. “I have no need for your apologies, O King. Just stay away from me.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and marched away towards the trees, disappearing in the darkness. Thorin watched him go, pale-faced and wide-eyed. Dwalin's heavy hand settled on his shoulder and squeezed.

“Yer a dick, princess” the warrior muttered, slapped Thorin's arm a few times (somewhat harder than usual) and returned to sit by the fire. The King turned to look at the rest of the Company. His nephews were glaring at him openly, their young faces twisted in anger. The others were avoiding his gaze, clearly displeased with him also. Balin was shaking his head, but there was a thoughtful expression on his face that Thorin could not explain.

“What did he call Thorin?” Ori asked in a hushed voice and the dwarves looked at each other in puzzlement.

“No idea,” said Nori, glancing up sharply at the King. There was a small dagger in his hand, flicking in and out of sight as he played with it. “But it didn't sound very nice.”

“I'd swear I've heard it before,” Gloin muttered, scratching his long beard. His forehead scrunched in thought as he tried to remember.

“Maybe when we were in the Shire,” Fili suggested, his face still clouded with anger. He shot Thorin a dirty look. “Maybe it's the language of hobbits or something.”

“Perhaps,” Balin murmured, but he sounded doubtful. He shrugged. “Never mind that now. We should get some sleep.”

“What about Bilbo?” Bofur asked with a worried frown, looking towards the woods. “He's alone out there.”

“He'll come back when he's ready,” Oin said firmly, getting up to settle on his bedroll. “Leave the lad for now, allow him some peace. Valar know he has had his fair share of misery on this quest.”

And with that, the healer closed his eyes and soon his snores interrupted the silence that fell over the Company.

Thorin's shoulders slumped. “Dwalin, take the first watch,” he said. Turning around, he trudged towards his own bedroll and sat down with his back towards the fire. The others watched him go but soon they turned to their own beddings, settling to sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gazat flâgît (Black Speech) - idiot dwarf from gazat - dwarf and flâgît - idiot. Apparently, in Black Speech we put the modifier before the noun. Black Speech taken from: http://www.thelandofshadow.com/mordorgate/darkdownloads/blackspeech/BS-A-.htm
> 
> A great website, if you wish to learn Orcish :)
> 
> The song sung by Bilbo i called "Do virgins taste better" and you can listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LIK2Pwybzuc


	4. Apologies and Arguments

The Company marched for another forthnight before they found themselves at the foot of the Misty Mountains, tired and worn out. Thorin had set a fast pace, driving them mercilessly from dawn till dusk, not even allowing a brief stop for a meal in the middle of the day.

Bilbo refused to complain, though his feet ached from the long trek. But despite the pain and the weariness, his anger still burned bright. How dared he? How dared that... that _dwarf_ rise his hand to him? Bilbo could squish him like a pathetic bug he was, press and press on his chest until the bones broke under his weight, crushing the lungs and heart. He could rip off his limbs, one after another. He could even make an exception and devour him, drink his blood, _like it._

Damn Gandalf and that stupid promise.

But the deal they had struck did not mention _glaring_ to be also forbidden, and so Bilbo made do with shooting their esteemed leader dirty looks whenever he could. Which was, to say the least, not very often. Bilbo kept to the end of the line, choosing the company of Bifur and Bofur - the tactic kept him as far away from Thorin as possible and as days passed he felt less and less inclined to march up to the font and pluck the dwarf's still beating heart from his chest. The anger was still there, yes. But not as deadly.

The Misty Mountains loomed in front of them, huge and mysterious, and Bilbo found himself smiling at the sight. He had not seen anything but green, rolling hills of the Shire for decades, and while he loved his little home and longed to see it again, being among the wilderness of the Middle-Earth and the raw beauty of the mountains made him giddy.

“How can y'still smile after all that walking is beyond me,” Bofur said when they stopped for the night, speech slurring slightly with exhaustion. Bilbo laughed brightly, all thoughts of Thorin forgotten. He wouldn't let the King ruin his happiness.

“Ah, but my friend,” the hobbit answered, eyes bright with mischief. “Hobbits are natural long-distance trekkers. Not my fault you dwarves have no stamina.”

Bifur chortled at that, sitting heavily near his pack. He dug into it, gesturing for Bilbo to sit beside him. Bofur left to help Bombur with dinner, swaying a bit on his feet and grumbling something about cheeky hobbits and their large, rabbit feet. Bilbo chose to ignore him, turning his attention to Bifur instead.

The dwarf rumaged in his backpack for a long while, mumbling and hissing in exasperation. Finally, he gave out a loud grunt of triumph and pulled his hand out, clenching...

“Oh,” Bilbo breathed, reaching out to touch the little wooden toy in Bifur's grasp. It was a small figurine of a dragon, its tail curled around its body, wings outstretched. The dragon was beautifully engraved, the attention to detail mind-boggling, and Bilbo stared at it enchanted.

Bifur nudged his hand closer with a grunt, and the hobbit looked up, eyes wide.

“You cannot possibly give this to me,” he said, shaking his head. Bifur's face fell and he lowered his eyes, curling his hand around the toy. He mumbled something in Khuzdul, turning the masterpiece in his hand this way and that, as if looking for a fault.

“It's too beautiful,” Bilbo muttered and Bifur's eyes snapped up to his, hopeful. Bilbo almost kicked himself. The toy-maker clearly thought his work was not good enough for the hobbit. “I cannot take it without pay.”

Bifur shook his head, braids and beads jostling at the movement. Bilbo spared them a fleeting look. None of them was made of gold. Good.

“I'm afraid you must accept it, Mister Baggins,” said a gruff voice behind him and Bilbo stiffened. Thorin stood at his side, towering above the hobbit like the mountains he found so fascinating, his face blank as he looked at them. “Bifur will not take coin from you and refusing his gift would be a grave insult.”

Bilbo turned to look at Bifur, who nodded vehemently as the leader spoke, once more pushing the little figurine into the hobbits hands. Bilbo took it, mumbling a quiet “thank you”. To his surprise Bifur leaned forward and very lightly tapped their foreheads together before getting up and leaving the hobbit with the King. Alone.

Bilbo cleared his throat, turning his gaze away from the toy to look at Thorin. The dwarf had a most peculiar expression on his face, as if he couldn't quite believe what had happened.

“May I?” he said after a while, gesturing to the space next to Bilbo. The hobbit scowled but nodded shortly, his fingers running along the carefully carved ridges upon the dragon's back.

The dwarf sat down gracefully, the odd look on his face still present. They sat in awkward silence for a while. Bilbo, regardless of his perfect manners, did not try to engage the King in any kind of small talk, despite his clear unease. Let him suffer the awkwardness. He deserved it.

“My Company holds you in very high regard,” Thorin said finally, resting his hands on his knees. Bilbo shrugged, saying nothing. “Bifur would not have done that if he didn't think you a friend.”

“What, give me a gift?” Bilbo snarked, carefully putting the toy into his pocket. He would loathe to loose it.

“No,” Thorin said gruffly, very clearly trying to control his temper. “He wouldn't have given you _Bund-Muhud,_ the head blessing. It is shared only between kin and close friends.”

Bilbo craned his neck to look at Bifur who was standing next to Bofur, gesturing as he spoke in harsh Khuzdul. His cousin laughed and nodded, eyes moving for a second to meet Bilbo's gaze. The hobbit's greens ones turned pleading. _Help._

Thorin stiffened.

“Is my company truly so displeasing to you, Master Hobbit?” he growled. Bilbo glared at him coldly.

“You wanted to strike me for a stupid song,” he hissed. “What do you think, _O King_?”

Thorin flinched. His eyes ( _such beautiful deep, deep blue, oh, no Bilbo, don't you dare)_ lost the heat of his glare and turned resigned instead.

“You will not accept my apology, then?” he asked, still dignified despite sitting in the dirty grass next to a _hobbit_ , of all races. Bilbo's eyes narrowed.

“You haven't apologised yet,” he said, the rage in his chest subsiding slowly. He was still angry at Thorin for reacting so violently to a silly song. But maybe, _maybe_ , he could accept that the choice of the song might have been a little too much to the King. Singing about dragons and devouring one's people would have to be put on hold... at least when Thorin was around.

“I suppose I owe you an apology, too,” Bilbo said finally, reluctant to admit his fault in the situation at hand. “I... did not think. The song is quite popular in the Shire and I simply thought you dwarves would enjoy the merry melody. I am... _sorry_ , for awakening old memories.” Bilbo shook his head and snorted. “But I am not sorry for calling you an idiot,” he continued, giving Thorin a small smile.

The dwarf huffed a short laugh. “So that's what you called me,” he muttered. “We had wondered. I wasn't aware hobbits had their own language.”

“It wasn't hobbitish,” Bilbo answered. Thorin frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but Bilbo gave him no chance to do so. “I still haven't heard your apology.”

Thorin sighed heavily, his broad shoulders relaxing minutely.

“I am deeply sorry,” he said quietly, “for any hurt I have caused you.”

Bilbo nodded. “That must have been painful,” he deadpanned and Thorin shook his head with a small smile.

“You have no idea,” he grumbled, but there was warmth to his voice that made Bilbo chuckle.

“So,” Bilbo began, leaning back to rest his weight on his hands. His back popped unpleasantly and they both winced at the sound. “Who made you do it?”

Thorin grimaced. “Kili and Fili were quite vocal in their defence of your honour,” he admited after a while, “and Balin kept giving me his famous disapproving looks. Dwalin may or may not have threatened bodily harm.”

“Dwalin!” Bilbo squeaked, whirling around to look at the burly dwarf sharpening his axes next to Ori. The poor lad was red as a tomato, face half-hidden behind his scrolls. Huh. Seemed like not only Glorfindel was admired by the little scribe.

“Aye,” Thorin said, noting Bilbo's confusion with amusement. “He may not care much for you, but he knows the incident sat heavily on my mind.”

“Oh thank you,” Bilbo sniffed, giving the King a small glare. “Not care much for me, indeed...”

Thorin laughed at that, reaching out to clasp Bilbo's shoulder gently. “Worry not, Burglar. Dwalin only seems so cold. He's quite soft at heart.”

“I heard that,” came a loud yell, and Thorin broad frame shook with poorly contained mirth.

“You were meant to,” he shot back, fingers tightening on the hobbit's bicep. He let go slowly.

“We will begin crossing the mountains tomorrow,” Thorin said, getting up. “You should get some rest.”

“We wouldn't need as much rest if you were less of a slave-driver,” Bilbo mumbled teasingly, but the King's eyes narrowed ever so slightly and he stiffened again, the smile slipping from his mouth. Obviously he had missed the joke.

“Are you questioning my authority, hobbit?” he asked, eyes flashing. Bilbo stared at him for a while then got up with a scowl, throwing his hands in the air.

“Am I quest- ... Are you serious?” he snapped, “You, you _dwarf_!”

“If you meant it to be an insult, Master Baggins, I am afraid it did not work,” Thorin growled, straightening to his full height.

“I _was_ going to say “pigheaded, stubborn idiot of a dwarf”, but we just made peace and-”

“ _Pigheaded_ ,” Thorin repeated, his face turning red in anger. Bilbo would have found it quite amusing had he not been angry himself. “Oh, that's rich, coming from you!”

“And what is that supposed to mean!” he yelled, stepping up into Thorin's personal space.

Before the King could snap back a reply, two pairs of arms caught Bilbo at the waist and dragged him away. He struggled, demanding to be realeased, (“ _I'll give him a piece of my mind, let me_ go _!_ ”) but the arms around his middle could as well be made of stone. He glared at Thorin one last time and the King crossed his bulky arms on his chest with a glower, scowling right back.

Fili and Kili, for indeed it was the brothers who dragged him away, deposited him on the other side of the fire, as far away from Thorin as possible.

“Are you even capable of talking to Uncle for longer than five minutes and not fight with him?” Kili asked cheerfuly, gently pushing Bilbo onto the log to sit. The hobbit gave him a withering look but the prince only chuckled, flopping down next to him. Fili shook his blond head, eyes sparkling with mirth.

“Unlikely,” he said, grinning when Bilbo sent him a rather rude gesture. “You two clearly need to be separated, for the good of the Company.”

“He should keep that temper of his on a tighter leash,” Bilbo snapped. _His pride will be his downfall_ , the thought bitterly, turning his gaze to the merily crackling fire.

Kili chortled, slapping Bilbo's back a few times and almost sending him into the flames with their force. “You're the one to talk!” he laughed. “Your temper could rival a dragon's!”

Bilbo chuckled at that, shrugging.

His eyes moved back to the King sitting next to Balin, listening to whatever the white-haired dwarf had to say. The deep blue eyes flickered to meet his green ones for a moment, narrowing ever so slightly, and Bilbo turned around with haste.

His hand moved to his shoulder where Thorin had touched him earlier. His spirit purred in contentment and he snatched his hand away, pressing it firmly into the log.

His cheeks felt hot from the fire.

 

*

 

The trek across the Misty Mountains was perilous and exhausting in ways the dwarves did not expect. First was the rain that started as soon as they began marching in the early morning, a real deluge of icy cold water slipping behind their colars and slashing at their faces as they trudged along the steep path leading deeper into the mountains. The stones were wet and slippery, and more than once someone had slipped or tripped only to be saved from a painful fall by swift reflexes of his companions. There were next to no caves in the mountains that would be suitable for setting up camp, so they had to make do with wide ledges out in the rain, huddled together to preserve body heat. Each time, the youngest members of the Company settled in the middle of the group, shivering and miserable, curled around Bilbo Baggins like limpets.

The hobbit was reacting poorly to the cold. His reflexes were dulled and his eyes unfocused as they marched on determinedly, his small hands sickly pale against the dark material of his cloak. He kept to the end of the line, walking slowly behind Gloin like in a dream, his head hanging low. He could feel his body light up with fever in response to the cold.

On one gloriously rainless evening, when they finally set camp on the still wet ledge, Bilbo immediately laid to sleep, barely noticing three bodies curl around him to share his warmth. He moved with a grimace, fever making him uncomforable with so much heat between the four of them, but the youngest dwarves grumbled with distress when he tried to move away, so he sighed tiredly, resigned, and settled to sleep. Before he closed his eyes, he saw Thorin stop to look down at them with an unreadable expression on his face. Moments later Bilbo felt a heavy coat settle around him and the lads, its fur lining soft against his face. He murmured something in thanks, his eyelids heavy, and he driffted off into fitful sleep.

His dreams were muddled and unclear, different memories flashing in and out behind his closed eyelid, not making any sense, and Bilbo felt even more exhausted when he awoke the next morning. He opened his eyes and moaned at the sight of Kili and Fili hanging above his head, twin expressions of concern on their young faces. Thorin's coat was still wrapped around him.

“He's awake,” Kili exclaimed, turning around to the other dwarves. “Oin, he's awake!”

“Aye, I hear ya, laddie,” said the healer irritably, kneeling down beside Bilbo. He peered into his eyes and mouth, then pressed his wrinkled hand to the hobbit's forehead. His face darkened with worry as he stood, marching up to the rest of the Company.

“Fever, and a high one at that,” he murmured to the dwarves, reaching into his pack and taking out his supplies. “We need to get him somewhere warm and dry.”

“There is no such place in those gods-forsaken mountains,” Bofur snapped, glancing worriedly at the Burglar. Bilbo was sitting up in his bedroll, pale and weak with fatigue. The coat slid down his shoulders to the ground and he shivered.

“I'm alright,” he said faintly, waving his hand to dismiss their concern. “My body always r-reacts like this to c-cold, don't worry. I'll be fine.”

Oin huffed in annoyance, moving back to the hobbit and presing his hand to his chest to make him lay down again.

“Fine, my arse,” the healer grumbled, tearing some herbs into smaller pieces and mashing them quickly into a pulp, then added some water. “You're far from fine, Master Baggins, and now kindly shut your mouth and drink this. It should ease the fever until we find shelter.”

Bilbo glared at him weakly but obeyed, grimacing at the bitter taste of medicine as it slid down his throat.

“Why didn't you say you feel poorly earlier?” Thorin grumbled, but the skin around his eyes was pinched with worry. The hobbit glared at him weakly and did not answer.

The silent treatment had carried on since the last encounter between the King and the hobbit, neither speaking a word or even looking at each other, except for the Burglar's glares shot at the dwarf's back as he marched up front and the dwarf's unreadable glances when the hobbit wasn't looking. Thorin might have lend them his coat for he night, but Bilbo knew that it was more to the lads' benefit than his own, and he was still quite furious with the leader. The atmosphere was tight with tension as the two stared at each other in a silent battle. Finally, Thorin dropped his gaze and turned around to gather his pack, shrugging on his fur-linned cloak.

“Get ready,” he ordered, his voice dull. “We march out in five minutes. The faster we cross the mountains, the sooner we can rest.”

The dwarves grumbled and cursed but hastened to obey, packing with a swiftness that came from years of practice. Bilbo struggled with his bedroll for a while before Fili jumped to help him, rolling it into a small bundle quickly and stuffing it into Bilbo's pack. Then he swung the pack onto his back and before the Burglar could protest, he started walking, falling in line behind his uncle. He gave the hobbit a cheeky grin before turning around and following their leader.

Bilbo chuckled weakly, standing a trifle unsteadily on his wobbly legs. A heavy hand clamped around his shoulder then, and he looked up only to meet Dwalin's fierce eyes. He swallowed nervously, bracing himself for whatever the dwarf had to say.

“Better keep up, Master Hobbit,” the warrior said, giving Bilbo a very gentle nugde. The Burglar stared at his for a second, shocked, then smiled slightly and nodded in thanks. Dwalin nodded back, waiting until Bilbo started walking before falling in line behind him, watching his every step, ready to catch him if he tripped.

They walked on and on along the steep, narrow path. No song nor laughter could be heard, all of them exhausted and grim. Bilbo slipped a few times as they marched and would surely tumble down the cliff had it not been for Dwalin's sure grip on his arm.

A loud clash of thunder rumbled above them and someone from the front of the line shouted to take cover. Dwalin pushed Bilbo into the hard, unforviging wall of the mountain just in time to avoid a huge boulder that fell right where they were standing a moment before. The hobbit breathed out, trying to calm his racing heart, and looked up at the warrior in silent thanks. But Dwalin wasn't looking at him – his eyes were wide with wonder and horror, and the Burglar turned to see what had frightened the hardened soldier so.

Stone Giants stood before them, enormous and deadly, hurling great rocks at each other in a terrible battle. What came next happened so quickly Bilbo had barely registered it – one second he was standing beside Dwalin and the next he was clawing desperately at the wall of the cliff, his feet dangling above the abyss, uselessly seeking purchase.

Fear came then, bright and mind-numbing, and Bilbo realized he did not want to die. Not like this, in the cold, wet mountains, thrown against sharp rocks like a rag doll. Not like this, away from his beautiful, peaceful Shire with its green, rolling hills and the people who needed him.

Bofur's face appeared above him then and he shouted for the others. Bilbo reached out to grasp his outstretched hand but he missed, slipping down the cliff wall a little before his fingers digged painfully into the crack between the rocks. He looked up, terror clear on his face. Arms came around him then, warm and powerful, and he was hoisted up and into Bofur's waiting hands. He was shaking like a leaf, staring as Thorin tried to pull himself onto the path after him. A small sound of horror escaped his tightly closed lips as he watched the King slip and almost fall down the mountain before Dwalin grabbed his hand and with a bellow yanked him up and over the edge.

“I thought we had lost our burglar,” he warrior said, gasping, and Thorin shot him a heated glare.

“He's been lost ever since he left his home. He should not have come, he has no place among us” he growled. Nori appeared then, shouting something about a cave. They ushered into it, grateful to get out of the rain and away from the Giants. Bilbo was staring at Thorin with hurt, wet hair plastered to his hot forehead.

Before he could say something to the King, Oin marched up to him, grumbling darkly in Khuzdul, and Bilbo resigned himself to his care. After more bitter herbs and a change of clothes (slightly damp, but still better than his soaked cloak), Bilbo settled down to wait until everyone was asleep. With a heavy heart, he got up silently and rolled up his bedroll before stuffing it into his pack. He shook his head, trying to get rid of the exhaustion – his body felt like it was burning from within, which made him ever more sleepy – and moved on tip-toe towards the entrance to the cave.

“Where d'ya think yer going?”

Bilbo sighed, turning to look at Bofur who sat on a rock, smoking his pipe.

“I'm going home,” Bilbo whispered back, adjusting his backpack. Bofur stood up, wide-eyed.

“But you're sick!” he said, staring at the hobbit worriedly.

“I do not belong here. Thorin was right,” Bilbo said, misery clear in his voice. He sniffed quietly, rubbing his nose against his sleeve.

“No, no! No, Bilbo, you can't leave, you're one of us now!”

“But I'm not, am I? Thorin said so. I will never be a part of this Company.”

Bofur frowned darkly, his pipe forgoten. His hands settled heavily on the hobbit's shoulders, his face achingly ernest as he said: “Thorin snapped at you because he was worried, surely you know that! Besides, the rest of the Company thinks highly of you and we would be very displeased to see you go. No matter what the old grump says, you _are_ one of us, my friend. Even _Dwalin_ likes ye.”

Bilbo looked at him for a long while, feeling his face crumple. His eyes filled with tears and he wiped his sleeve across them, scowling but without any heat behind it. Bofur chuckled, drawing him in for a hug, his arms tight around Bilbo's shoulders. The hobbit leaned against him for a moment, marveling at the almost forgotten feeling.

“What's that?” Bofur said after a while, pulling back and gesturing at Bilbo's little sword strapped to his belt. Unsheathing it, Bilbo gaped at its blue glow.

“Everybody! WAKE UP!”

And then they were falling.

 


	5. Of Rings and Orcs

Bilbo stared at the Ring of pure gold lying before him,  _whispering to him_ , and felt sick.

Its dark power proded his mind with its icy fingers, seeking,  _urging_ him to pick it up and return it to its Master.

_He is waiting,_ _why do you hesitate, desert child?_

The hobbit swallowed heavily, his skin cold and clammy. The Ring, having latched itself onto his weaknesses as it was in its nature, promised his return to the East of the East, to the land long gone, with sand hot to the touch so that the would never be cold again, heaps upon heaps of gold just for him, gems and precious metals shining in the scorching glare of the sun.

He would be left in peace there, alone in the home of his ancestors where his family had lived for centuries.  _Would you not like that,_ _ Shurr-Krumab? Return to your home, to your gold? _

But as he thought of home, Bilbo saw not the sandy mountains of the Last Desert - he saw the rolling green hills of the Shire, the hobbits mingling to and fro, laughing and smoking outside their smials; he saw the Green Dragon and a pint of the best ale in the whole Westfarthing; he saw his books and maps, Belladonna's china and Bungo's gardening tools, and his heart yearned to see those treasures he had hoarded and that meant to him more than gold ever had.

He thought of his dwarves, lost somewhere in the Goblin Town: of Ori's sweet nature and mittened hands, of Dori's mother-henning and Nori's eyes shining with mischief; of Bofur's silly hat and grand stories, of Bombur's booming laugh and Bifur's little dragon toy in his pocket. He thought of Balin's wit and Dwalin's silent acceptance and protection; of Kili and Fili's innocence and fierceness; of Oin's poor bedside manner and Gloin's obsession with his wife and son.

Of Thorin's dark blue eyes and his powerful arms wrapped around Bilbo's smaller shoulders, the weight and warmth of his hand on his arm. His spirit all but purred at the memory.

_Snaga!_ The Ring howled as Bilbo moved away _. Obey me, snaga!_

“I am no one's slave,” Bilbo snarled, scooping up a fistful of wet dirt. “Not anymore.”

And with that, he threw the dirt at the Ring, covering it carefully with rocks and more earth until its hateful voice fell silent.

A screech of pure fury and misery reached his ears then, and a creature with long, sickly pale limbs and huge, glowing eyes launched itself at him with a wail, its long fingers trying to grab at Bilbo's throat.

“It took it! It took our present!,” it screached, scratching at Bilbo's arms, “Give us back our precious, thief! Gollum!”

They fell over, Bilbo on his back with the creature trying to claw at his chest. They fought, but Bilbo was tired, so tired, both from the trek across the mountains, the fever and the influence of the Ring. He could feel strength leaving his body and he raised his arm and stabbed desperately with his sword. The creature, Gollum, gurgled, it's pale, lantern-like eyes staring at its thin chest where the little elven blade was imbeded. The hobbit twisted the sword sharply. Gollum slumped, gave out one last pathetic whine and stilled.

Bilbo stared at it for a moment, breathing harshly. Getting up to his feet, he looked around in a daze, searching for any source of light that would lead him out of the mountain. The creature had jumped onto him from the front, and so the hobbit turned away from the carcass and the Ring, and began walking with a heavy heart. His mind, trecherous thing as it was, kept returning to the Ring buried in the ground of Gollum's tunnels. He would have to tell Gandalf about it as soon as possible. If left alone, the Ring would eventually find its way back to its Master and the passages under the Goblin Town were not the safest place to hide such powerful artefact. But Bilbo could not touch it without being ensnared by its power, he knew. It was hard enough to resist its pull from meters away – he could not imagine touching it and ever thinking of letting it go.

_You should have taken it,_ his mind murmured, _it is Precious. Go back. Take it._

_No,_ he told himself firmly, shaking his head.  _No, I have no need for it._

_Think of its power. All would bow to you._

Bilbo thought about his friends on their knees before him, fear and loathing twisting their features as they gazed up at him, Thorin's eyes full of hate, and he shuddered violently.

_Never_ , he said and it felt like a promise. His spirit's goldlust clamed, quietened, and for the first time in many days, Bilbo smiled. 

 

*

 

He rushed out of the mountain just in time to see Fili's blond mane disappear among the trees. He sprinted down the steep slope, moving his short legs as fast as he could. He was panting harshly, fatigue making his eyesight blurry, but he kept going, racing after his Company as if the whole pack of wargs was on his heels.

“Where is Bilbo?!”

Gandalf's deep voice reached his ears and he stopped to catch his breath. Peering from behind the tree, he looked at the dwarves who gazed around, searching frantically for their burglar. It was Thorin who spoke next, his voice tight with anger and something Bilbo couldn't recognize.

“I'll tell you what happened! Master Baggins saw his chance and he took it. He's thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since first he stepped out of his door! We will not be seeing our Hobbit again, he's long _gone_!”

His voice cracked at the last word ever so slightly, and Bilbo swallowed. There was anger in Thorin's voice, yes, but also concern, as if he was not quite convinced by his own words. The Burglar took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the tree.

“No, he's not,” he said, his eyes locked firmly on the Dwarf King. Their leader stared at him in astonishment, baffled and relieved at the same time as the Company cheered and slapped Bilbo's back. His dark blue eyes darted down to look at Bilbo's blade still clenched in his fist.

“This is no goblin blood,” Gloin said darkly, gesturing to the sword. “Are you injured?”

“Oh, no,” Bilbo hastened to assure them when they looked him over in concern. “It's not my blood. I was attacked by a creature in the tunnels after I fell.”

“You fell? But I saw you slip away!” Nori cried, his eyes wide in astonishment.

Bilbo shook his head slowly, “It's a long story and I will gladly tell it to you later. But for now, I think we need to move on. This forest will be crawling with goblins as soon as the sun sets.”

“Bilbo is right,” Gandalf said, sheathing Glamdring. His kind eyes bored into Bilbo's green ones and narrowed in thought when the hobbit returned his stare.

_ We need to talk _ , Bilbo thought,  _ It's important. _

Gandalf nodded shortly, his gaze never leaving the Burglar. “Well, I'm glad you're back, my friend.” The wizard proclaimed finally, putting his hand on the hobbit's shoulder and squeezing.

“Why did you come back?” Thorin asked, confused. Bilbo turned to look at him seriously.

“I know you doubt me,” he began, “and I know you always have. I often think of Bag End. I miss my books and my armchair and my garden. I miss my china set. See, that's where I belong. That's home. And that's why I came back. Because you don't have one. It was taken from you. But I will help you take it back if I can.”

_ And protect my own while I do it _ , he thought grimly. Thorin was staring at him with something akin to awe, his mouth open in shock, and for a brief moment Bilbo marveled at the idea of rendering the proud dwarf speechless.

A howl of a warg came then, loud and terrifyingly close. The Company looked at each other in fright.

“Out of the frying pan-” Thorin muttered.

“And into the fire,” Gandalf finished. “Run. Run!”

 

*

 

**_ Biriz torag khobdudol! _ **

Bring me his head.

Oh Valar, no. Not again, not  _ Thorin. _

Bilbo stuggled to his feet as quickly as he could, his little sword clenched tightly in his fist, and ran.

The smell of fire and ash settled heavily on his tongue, stinging his eyes and making them water as he launched himself at the orc who was just about to cut off Thorin's head. His spirit howled in fury, clawing at the hobbit's mind to release it and protect the dwarf, but Bilbo ignored it.

His sword went into the orc's chest like into warm butter, and he stabbed again and again in a furious frenzy until the creature under him went still. He jumped up then, standing before the Dwarf King, shielding him from the Pale Orc.

“You will not touch him, _glob,”_ Bilbo snarled and the monster's eyes widened in surprise.

“ _The little half-man speaks our tongue,”_ he said to his white warg, patting the animal's flank. His cruel eyes flashed with furious glee. “ _Called us filth. Taste his blood._ ”

The warg growled in response to his Master's order and took a step forward but before it could launch itself at the hobbit, with a great roar the other dwarves entered the frenzy, axes and swords slashing at the unsuspecting orcs and wargs. Azog bellowed with rage, swinging his great mace, but his gaze was still locked on the halfling who stood firmly before the dwarf king, his little sword glowing blue.

His green eyes turned gold. Azog stared at him in shock.

“ _Desert-Worm,_ ” the orc snarled, a cruel smirk twisting his scarred lips , “ _I have not seen a skinchanger for many years. Pity you have to die here – you would make a most delightful pet._ ”

Before Bilbo could answer, however, a loud screech interrupted him. He looked up just in time to see a giant Eagle swoop down before it grabbed him gently with its wicked talons. Another bird took the King, his still form limp in its claws, flying off as swiftly as it came.

Azog roared in fury when his prey was snatched away from him, but Bilbo's eyes were fixed on the dwarf. The hobbit yelled in fright when the Eagle dropped him. He landed on the back of another bird and he grabbed the soft feathers to keep himself from falling.

“Do no pull, desert child!” the Eagle berated him, jostiling him a little.

“Thorin-”

“He's safe now,” the bird said, almost gently, “Look.”

The bird that had grabbed Thorin was flying next to them, its talons wrapped carefully around the dwarf's prone form. He was too still, too pale, and Bilbo's heart leaped into his throat. His spirit raged in fury and grief at the sight, and the Eagle on whose back he sat startled at the intensity of Bilbo's emotions.

“Do not fear for your companion, desert child. Settle your spirit,” the Eagle said, its voice soothing. “He will be alright.”

Bilbo nodded, trying to control the urge to jump and check on Thorin to make sure. His eyes moved to the rest of the Company, counting the dwarves quickly. They were all there, safe and sound, and with a relieved breath the hobbit rested his forehead against the Eagle's feathery neck. The bird trilled at him, beating its great wings slowly. Bilbo relaxed. He lifted his head as they swooped down sharply, letting out a sudden woop of excitement. The wind ripped into his hair and clothes, but he was giggling with glee when the Eagle soared higher and higher, its chirping voice laughing along with the Halfling.

“I have not flown for a long time,” the hobbit yelled against the wind. The Eagle chuckled.

“Enjoy it then, desert child. You belong to the skies as much as you belong to the sand.”

They stayed silent after that, lost to their own exaltation. Too soon they started descending, powerful wings beating slower and slower, and Bilbo was gently set down onto a huge rock.

“Thank you,” he said to the Eagle who looked at him solemnly with its fierce eyes. “Farewell, wherever you fare, till your eyries receive you at the journey's end!”

“Farewell, desert child,” the Eagle returned, incling its great head. “May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moonwalks."

It spread its wings to take off, but it turned back to look at Bilbo one more time. “Should you ever need help, desert child, you may call upon me . My name is Meneldor – let it ride along the western winds when in need and I shall find you.”

Bilbo bowed, touched by the Eagle's kindness. He was surprised, too, as the Great Eagles had never been too fond of his kind. They never battled, true, and his people prefered the hot sands of the Last Desert rather than windy peaks of the mountains, but the Eagles and the Were-Worms had always been wary of each other. The Eagles still remembered the great serpents of Morgoth, and Bilbo's ancestors had remembered how the birds of Manwë slaughtered the dragons during the War of Wrath. They had stayed away from each other, avoiding confrontation as much as possible.

Meneldor took off, launching himself into the open sky with one great swoop of his powerful wings. His kin put down the rest of the Company and flew off with a high cry of triumph, disappearing quickly in the distance.

Bilbo turned on his heel to look at the Dwarf King just in time to see him open his eyes. Gandalf smiled with relief.

“The halfling...” Thorin muttered, sitting up with difficulty. Dwalin jumped to help him get onto his feet.

“He's safe,” the wizard assured him, “Bilbo is quite alright.”

The King turned to look at the hobbit, his eyes bright with emotions Bilbo could not name. A grimace twisted the dwarf's features then and the Burglar's heart sank in despair.

“You,” Thorin snapped. “What were you doing? You nearly got yourself killed! Did I not say that you would be a burden, that you would not survive in the wild? That you have no place amongst us?

Bilbo hung his head, hurt and confusion raging in his mind. His spirit howled in anguish, urging him to touch Thorin, to make sure he's whole and hale, to protect him. But he stood still, tears filling his eyes despite his efforts to stop them from coming. Thorin stopped in front of him and Bilbo braced himself for a strike that never came.

Instead, powerful arms wrapped around him, warm and strong, and he almost collapsed into the embrace, sobbing with relief. His fingers clenched around Thorin, trying to reach as much of him as possible.

“I've never been so wrong in all my life,” Thorin whispered into his hair, bringing the hobbit closer until he was all but buried among the soft folds of the dwarf's cloak. It stank of blood and sweat, but Bilbo didn't care - he inhaled deeply, nose pressed into the king's neck, his true form purring with contentment at having him close.

Thorin and his dwarves had wormed their way into Bilbo's heart despite his best efforts not to let them. His soul exaulted at the feeling of having his hoard complete, his to love and protect. He would die for them had they asked for it, and he would stand by their side to the very end. But Thorin... Thorin meant to him more than he could comprehend, and Bilbo wondered for a moment if this was what his mother had told him about when he was but a child – his Tamer, his Heart, his biggest Treasure to have and to hoard. He shook his head to dismiss the thought. While his true form seemed to be attatched to Thorin, judging by its quite dramatic reaction to the dwarf king's fall due to Azog's mace, it was impossible that Thorin was his Tamer, just like his parents had been for each other. He had never heard of a Tamer from a different race. As his kind was long dead, therefore, there was no chance he would ever find his Heart, his Tamer to settle and help control his wild spirit. No matter. He had his dwarves to cherish, after all.

The rest of the Company cheered and laughed, relieved to see their King and hobbit make peace. Thorin stepped away, his eyes gentle and his smile wide and genuine. Bilbo's breath caught in his throat at the sight. Thorin leaned forward then, resting his forehead briefly against Bilbo's, his warm breath gusting gently over the hobbit's face. The King looked at him for a moment longer after he leaned back, but soon his eyes caught something in the distance and his jaw went slack in wonder.

The Burglar turned around, still trembling from the feelings brought forth by Thorin's _Bund-Muhud_. The Lonely Mountain loomed in the distance.

“Erebor,” the King whispered reverently, “our home.”

The hobbit gazed at the dwarf, his heart hammering painfully in his chest. Happiness and dread filled him at the sight of the ancient kingdom. They were close, so very close to reclaiming Thorin's ancestral home; but with every step they were also nearing Smaug. A shudder creeped along the hobbit's spine as he thought of the dragon sleeping in that mountain, curled upon his hoard.

“Come,” Gandalf said suddenly, breaking the spell of the moment. “We must get off the Carrock.”

With one last look at the Lonely Mountain, Thorin turned to follow the rest of the Company as they began climbing down the steep rock. The King glanced at the hobbit who did not move and was still starring off into the distance. He touched his shoulder gently, careful not to startle him. Bilbo's eyes snapped to him immediately, attentive and focused.

“Come, Master Baggins,” Thorin muttered.

Bilbo smiled thinly and with a small nod began climbing down.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shurr-Krumab (Black Speech) - Desert Worm  
> snaga (Black Speech) - slave  
> glob (Black Speech) - filth  
> Biriz torag khobdudol! (Black Speech) - Bring me his head.
> 
> Bund-Muhud from Khuzdul: Bund - head; Muhud - blessing. I made it up. Deal with it.


	6. The Bear and the Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BEORN. BEORN, FINALLY, AWH YIS.

Once the Company climbed down the Carrock they collapsed with groans of pain right where they stood. Exhausted, Thorin sat carefully and leaned against the rock, grimacing when his freshly healed wounds pulled unpleasantly with the movement. His eyes sought out every single member of his Company, inspecting them from afar. They were all weary but whole and hale. Alive. His nephews were already getting to their feet, mumbling something about getting wood for the fire and finding food.

“Be careful,” Thorin said to them as they passed him, their steps slow with tiredness. They sent him small smiles before disappearing among the trees. Oin stood up next and moved towards him to inspect his wounds, grumbling and cursing. Finding nothing to treat except bruises and cuts, he marched to check on the rest of the Company.

Thorin turned to look at the hobbit then. Bilbo was standing next to Gandalf, the wizard leaning forward and listening to whatever the Burglar was saying intently. Thorin could not see his face, but the rigid line of his back betrayed his unease.

Thorin narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Were they talking about whatever the wizard was hiding from him? He still had not been able to find out what it was and the stern talking to about manhandling the halfling he got from the wizard back in Rivendell prevented him from getting the answers from Bilbo. Not that he would be able to, anyway – the burglar was too stubborn for his own good. And it wouldn't do to aggravate one of the Maiar.

Bilbo shook his head at whatever Gandalf was saying, curls bouncing around his pointed ears, and Thorin forced himself not to follow their path with his eyes. He looked down at his hand, rubbing the tips of his fingers together thoughtfully. The memory of Bilbo's fragile body in his arms sprang to mind, the warmth seeping through his thin clothes and into Thorin's skin sending a slow shiver down his spine. The hobbit had been giving off heat like a little furnace when he clasped his shoulder before their silly fight too, soothing the dwarf's muscles, stiff from the long trek up to the Mountains.

Then he had to open his mouth and stuff his foot in it. _Pigheaded, indeed._

But he couldn't help it. The halfling's insolence drove him half-mad each time the Burglar even _looked_ at him with badly veiled smirk, and he longed to grab the impertinent, stubborn little creature and _shake_ him like a rabbit until he begged for mercy.

But when Bilbo smiled, his eyes burned with light. Thorin would be a fool not to notice their enchanting beauty, the way Bilbo's cheeks flushed pink when he was amused or happy, how his ears visible through his hair twitched and his nose wrinkled with distaste when he was angry. His beardless chin seemed odd at first, but the longer Thorin looked at their hobbit the harder he tried to control the urge to reach out and feel the softness of his skin against his rough hand.

Stupid, old fool. He didn't even _like_ Bilbo.

Thorin sighed, leaning harder into the rock. That was not true, not entirely. He liked Bilbo – he liked his fiery temper and his perfect manners; he liked his voice when he sang, and he liked the way he laughed, like soft chiming of bells. He liked how Bilbo talked, the delicate gestures accompanying his words, the small, fond smile stretching his lips as he remembered his home back in the Shire.

What he didn't like was Bilbo's dislike of _him._

He knew it was mainly his fault. He treated the hobbit less than kind from the moment they had met, but the halfling was so frustrating, so... _insolent_ with his “ _O King_ ” and “ _Your Majesty_ ” that sounded more like he was being mocked than like a sign of respect to his status.

He did not care for being mocked, especially not by halflings.

But Bilbo had saved him. He had jumped after him and killed in his defence, stood in front of him with his letter-opener held tightly in his hand and faced Azog the Defiler himself. Thorin shuddered at the thought of what would happen to the hobbit had the Eagles not came with aid.

“Are you alright?” came a soft question and Thorin opened his eyes. He hadn't even realized he closed them. He looked up tiredly, meeting Bilbo's gaze.

“Quite alright,” he assured the Burglar and moved to make room, wincing at the stabbing pain in his ribs. He patted the patch of soft grass next to him. Bilbo sat, uncertain. “No need to worry, Master Hobbit.”

“You were chewed on by a warg,” the hobbit muttered. Thorin's mouth opened to say something scathing in return, but he stopped himself in the last moment noting how stiffly Bilbo sat, green eyes locked on Thorin's middle where the warg's jaws closed around him.

Worry shone in those eyes and Thorin smiled weakly.

“Don't concern yourself, Master Baggins,” he says with gentleness that surprised him. Bilbo too, if the shocked expression on his face was anything to go by. “Gandalf healed most of my wounds. Tis only a few bruises.”

Bilbo nodded, relaxing next to him. They sat in comfortable silence, both lost in their thoughts. Exhaustion pulled at Thorin's body, making his eyelids heavier and heavier. His head slumped onto the hobbit's shoulder slowly, but he had no strength to move it. Bilbo was warm, so very warm, and he was so tired...

“Your fever...” he mumbled, already half-asleep. Bilbo chuckled beside him.

“I'm fine,” he said, leaning against Thorin a little bit more. The dwarf hummed in response, enjoying the warmth seeping from Bilbo's smaller form.

“I'm sorry for calling you pigheaded,” the hobbit whispered next to his ear, and Thorin chuckled briefly before letting sleep claim him.

Bilbo remained where he was for a long time.

 

*

 

A full night's sleep did very little to aid their exhaustion.

 “Let's move on,” the wizard said to the dwarves who answered with an agonized groan but stumbled back onto their feet. “We need to reach my friend's house by nightfall.”

Thorin grimaced with pain as he stood slowly and Bilbo had to stop himself from rushing to the dwarf to check on him. They had no time for this now, and Thorin would not appreciate his fussing in front of the Company. Besides, their friendship was still fragile and a single wrong step could shatter it back into pieces.

They marched on, trailing after Gandalf miserably.

After hours of walking among the trees and bushes, the wizard stopped suddenly and turned to the exhausted dwarves with a small smile.

“We are about to enter Beorn's lands,” he said, gesturing to the fields behind him. A solitary house loomed in the distance. “No living thing is to be harmed here, as our host is very protective of the animals under his care.”

The dwarves nodded in agreement, none of them even thinking of hunting despite their hunger. They were too tired to track game, anyway.

“Beorn is a temperamental man,” Gandalf continued, and Bilbo's eyes narrowed suspiciously as the wizard levered him with an amused gaze. “He is quick to anger, but kind and generous when entertained as he is fond of tales. We shall have to go in pairs to keep him calm and interested enough to let us stay in his abode.”

“You said you knew this man,” Thorin muttered, pale with exhaustion. Gandalf shrugged.

“I know _of_ him, though we have never met in person.”

The dwarves moaned in despair, muttering under their breaths about meddling wizards and their mad plans. Gandalf chose to ignore them, turning to Balin instead.

“You will acompany me first, Balin. I hope our host will be kind enough to even listen to our story. The rest of you, await out signal. Bilbo, I will ask you to come last.”

And with that, the wizard walked off with Balin in tow. The dwarves stared after them in silence for a while before Bofur flopped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut off. The rest followed, sitting in the soft grass with relieved groans. Noone said a word as they rested, enjoying the setting sun on their faces and the cool grass soothing their tired bodies.

After a while, a sharp noise like a whistle shattered the silence. Oin and Gloin got to their feet and marched towards the house. Then it was Dwalin and Ori's turn, then Nori and Dori's. Kili and Fili went next, Bofur and Bombur following them reluctantly.

When the sixth whistle came, Thorin shot Bilbo a concerned look, clearly hesistant to leave him alone out in the woods. Bilbo smiled at him encouragingly, waving at him in a “go on” gesture. The dwarf king frowned, but his features softened ever so slightly and he followed Bifur out of the woods and into their host's home.

Bilbo waited, impatient to finally rest after everything that had happened. He was weakened and the cold of the Misty Mountains seemed to cling to him still, chilling his bones. His clothes were stained with red and black blood, and stank sharply of sweat. He longed to lay down in a soft bed after a thorough bath; sleep without worrying about his companions.

Gandalf's signal came then. Bilbo sighed before walking down towards Beorn's house.

The gardens around their host's dwelling reminded Bilbo of the Shire, though the flowers were taller and the bees seemed to be the size of kittens. There were ponies grazing among the flowerbeds but as soon as they smelled Bilbo, they bolted in fright. The hobbit sighed, manouvering between cats and dogs that came out from their hiding places to look at him curiously. He reached out to pat one of the houds. The animal growled at him and bared its teeth. Bilbo frowned, baring his own in return. The dog looked confused, but its tongue rolled out after a moment and its tail moved in a timid wag. Bilbo chuckled quietly.

He reached the door and was just about to knock on the polished wood when the handle went down and suddenly Bilbo was looking up and up, only to stare at the man who opened the door in wonder.

Beorn, as it must have been their host himself, was a giant of a man with full black beard and fierce black eyes. We was tall, taller even than Gandalf, and his bulging muscles rippled as he moved.

He was also, quite undeniably, a skinchanger.

Bilbo stared and Beorn stared back, both with astonishment written across their faces. The hobbit could see the rest of the Company looking at them with alarm. Thorin moved, grabbing the hilt of his sword, but istead of attacking their Burglar as the dwarf had feared, Beorn kneeled down and his huge arms sneaked around Bilbo to draw him into a tight embrace before the halfling could even think to utter a protest.

Bilbo shuddered in Beorn's arms, the familiar scent of a fellow shapeshifter surrounding him like a comfortable blanket, and he clung just as fiercely to the man.

Beorn turned to Gandalf with a scowl on his bearder face, still pressing Bilbo tightly to his chest. The wizard's eyes were twinkling with mischief.

“You did not tell me you had my kin in your company,” he growled. Gandalf shrugged, but the dwarves stared at them in stunned silence.

“ _Kin?_ ” Kili cried finally. “What do you mean, “kin”?!”

Beorn rised one black eyebrow at the dwarves, noticing their astonishment. “Are you telling me you did not know you were traveling with a skinchanger?”

Bilbo moaned into his palms and Beorn looked down at him with a frown.

“Was that a secret?” the man said, somewhat apologetic, but Bilbo only sighed in resignation.

“They would have found out on their own, eventually,” the muttered. In a muted whisper he added: “Do not tell him about my true form _._ ”

Beorn nodded, but his frown deepened dangerously. He stood up slowly, placing his huge hand on the halfling's shoulder. His touch was careful and gentle. “They will not harm you,” he whispered back, eyes flashing.

“I had thought my kin is no more,” he continued loudly, voice hoarse with emotions he tried to contain. Bilbo's small fingers reached out to squeeze his thicker ones in silent comfort, though his own control was slipping, too. He had thought his family to be dead, and while the bear-man and his kind had been very distant cousins and both clans were more than happy to avoid each other, the thought of meeting one of his kin, no matter how distant, filled him with such happiness he could hardly stop himself from drawing the other close and let his comforting smell wrap around him again.

Beorn had no such qualms – with one huge hand he lifted Bilbo into his arms and marched to the table, ignoring his outraged splutterings. The dwarves, still wide-eyed, moved to make room, and Beorn put Bilbo onto the chair next to his very gently. The hobbit glared at the bear-man, but he only chuckled, mirth and happiness shining in his black eyes.

“You have chosen an unusual form, cousin,” Beorn said with a short laugh, looking at Bilbo with raised eyebrows. One of his thick fingers touched the hobbit's ear, tracing the pointy end with curiosity. The Halfling shrugged, shivering. His ears were very sensitive.

The rest of the Company sat at the table, watching the two in silence. Finally, Bilbo turned to them with an uncertain smile on his lips.

“I am sorry I did not tell you,” he said, giving Thorin a meaningful look. The dwarf king looked blank, but his eyes widened after a moment as he understood what the hobbit meant – that was the secret the dwarf had demanded to know back in Rivendell. He inclined his head, though irritation at being lied to brewed in his chest. He pushed the feeling aside, too weary to confront the hobbit and the wizard. It could wait.

“What do you turn into, then, Master Bilbo?” asked Fili, exctiement colouring his voice. “A bear like Master Beorn?”

Beorn roared with laughter, slamming his huge fist against the table. “A little bunny, more like!” he joked gesturing at Bilbo's feet and moving away with a chuckle as Bilbo tried to jab him in the ribs in retaliation.

“No, Fili,” Bilbo said with a frown, grimacing at Beorn's amusement.

“What then?” Ori inquired, his brown eyes wide in wonder.

“I bet it's a badger,” Kili said, grinning cheekily. “Would fit that short temper of his.”

The dwarves laughed when Bilbo sent the young dwarf a rude gesture, but the laughter soon subsided and they watched the hobbit with wariness again.

“Well then? What is it?” Thorin demanded. The Burglar sighed, fidgeting on his stool. He glanced at Beorn imploringly, biting his lip with a worried frown.

“Asking a shapeshifter about his true form,” the man said, glaring at the dwarves, “is considered offensive by our people.”

“You said your people are no more,” Dwalin shot back. The two skinchangers flinched.

“Yes, Master Dwarf,” Beorn growled, and the old warrior's hand creeped slowly towards his axes. “My people were the first to live in the mountains, before the orcs came down from the North. Azog the Defiler killed most of my family, but some he enslaved – not for work, you understand, but for sport. Bilbo's people lived long before Azog slaughtered mine. Like my family, most of them had been slayed,” His eyes were pained as he looked at the hobbit, “ and the rest enslaved by the Witch-King of Angmar.”

Bilbo paled and whimpered in distress, hiding behind his shaking hands. Beorn cooed at him comfortingly, drawing him into his lap like one would a babe. Bilbo clung to him, buring his face in the man's beard. It smelled of the forest and pipe-weed.

His small fingers wrapped around Beorn's thick wrist, right above the iron shackle. He remembered how the collar dig into the softer scales of his neck, how the orcs proded him with their sharp spears until he was almost blind with rage. He remembered the crack of the Witch-King's whip as he had been flogged for disobedience, enchanted to be strong enough to hurt his tough hide. He remembered seeing his kin die, one after another, in battles they had not wished to fight. He remembered his mother's anguished screams and his father's blood on the pearly sand.

Beorn's hand moved into his hair, stroking gently the golden curls, and he took in a shuddering breath. He moved away after a while, smiling weakly at the bear-man. Turning around, he flinched at the sight of thirteen dwarves, pale and wide-eyed, staring at him with horror and pity. Only Gandalf was unsurprised by the news, pipe dangling from his mouth as he looked at the spectacle before him.

“Master Baggins, I owe you an apology,” Thorin choked out, swallowing around the lump in his throat. It was clear from Bilbo's reaction that the hobbit was once enslaved and his people destroyed, and Thorin felt shame fill his chest at the though. He had yelled at Bilbo that he had never experienced hardship and pain, accused him of being a spoilt, fussy halfling when in fact the hobbit had survived unimaginable horrors.

Bilbo smiled at him sadly, shaking his head.

“No, Thorin. You didn't know.”

“All the same,” the dwarf insisted, getting up. He stepped closer to the halfling, dropping down onto his knees and bowing his head. He heard the rest of his Company mutter in shock at his actions, but he ignored them. “I have done you a great disservice, Master Baggins, and once more I am asking for your fogiveness.” He took out a small knife he kept stuffed behind his belt, and brought the blade to one of his braids. “May this braid show to all my shame, and convince you of the truth of my words.”

“Thorin, no!”

The dwarf looked at the hobbit whose fingers wrapped around his hand to stop him. His green eyes were wide with distress.

“I wish to make amends,” Thorin said, his heart sinking. “Will you not forgive me?”

“Of course, of course I forgive you, you silly dwarf, I have forgiven you a long time ago,” Bilbo cried, putting his warms hands on Thorin's cheeks. The dwarf leaned into the touch slightly, his eyes never leaving the hobbit before him. “But there is no need to gift me your braid. I know how important they are to you. Please, don't do this, not for my sake.”

“I have wronged you,” the King insisted, starring at Bilbo's soft, beardless face. The Burglar's pink lips stretched in a small smile and the dwarf felt his heart hammer in his chest wildly. He swallowed.

“Yes,” Bilbo admitted, his fingers gentle on Thorin's cheeks. “But all is forgiven. Please, don't do this.”

Thorin nodded reluctantly, getting to his feet. Bilbo's hands fell away and the king felt a pang of loss when the delicate touch disappeared.

“As you wish,” he murmured. The hobbit grinned at him in asnwer.

“Come now, little bunny,” Beorn said, standing up and moving closer to Bilbo. His heavy hand settled around his shoulders again, as if he couldn't quite stop himself from touching the hobbit. Thorin narrowed his eyes, but Bilbo's attention was already focused on Beorn with such intensity the dwarf felt something stab at his chest like tiny needles. “We have much to discuss.”

And off they went, both clinging to each other like long lost brothers.

The dwarves sat in silence for a long while, staring at each other, stunned speechless.

“Well,” Dori said, “that was unexpected.”

Dwalin nodded numbly, still looking at Thorin as if he had grown another head. The king scowled back, avoiding his dwarves' stares.

“Actually, that explains a lot,” Oin said, thoughtful. The rest turned to look at him. “Remember when Thorin had almost struck him?” The King flinched but remained silent. “The lad looked like he had seen a ghost then, pale and shaking like a leaf. It probably reminded him of something very unpleasant, if what Master Beorn says is true.”

“It is true,” Gandalf said around the stem of his pipe, his eyes pained. “Bilbo had suffered more than you can imagine over the years in the Witch-King's captivity.”

“Why didn't you tell us?” Bofur demanded, his face white as a sheet. From all the dwarves he was the closest to Bilbo, and to learn that his friend had been a _slave_ to such evil... it boggled the mind.

“Bilbo's story is his own to tell,” the wizard answered, frowning. “And he had feared your reaction.”

“Wait,” Balin chimmed in, his eyes wide. “If Bilbo was in the Witch-King's captivity, that would mean he's...”

“More than a thousand years old, yes.”

“Oh.”

 

*

 

On the evening of their arrival the shapeshifter let them dine and wine as Bilbo, at the lads' insistence, told his story about Gollum (though he chose not to mention the Ring as per Gandalf's advice. The old wizard had been more than concerned when Bilbo told him about the Ring, promising to deal with it as soon as possible). The dwarves then recounted their own tales, many of old battles and glory. The two skinchangers sat close together throughout dinner, Bilbo scrubbed clean and changed into Beorn's clothes that were modified to fit his shorter body but were still far to big for him, hanging on his slight frame like a huge blanket. Thorin had to force himself not to look at the hobbit's exposed collarbones and shoulder as he leaned against Beorn powerful chest.

But why was Bilbo _sniffing_ him?

Whenever Beorn leaned forward a little to listen closely to their tales, Bilbo would stretch and stuff his nose into the man's neck, inhaling deeply. Beorn would then put his bearded chin on the hobbit's head, nudging the curly strands with his nose, breathing in like a man starved for breath.

What in Mahal's name was going on?

Thorin was not jealous. He _wasn't._ But their familiarity was almost intimate, even though they had known each other only for a few hours - they were all but _cuddling_ at the table in front of the Company.

He wasn't _jealous._

Besides, he couldn't really blame Bilbo from keeping his distance from him. Thorin had been less than kind to him ever since they left the Shire and had almost struck him in blinding rage. He was grateful the incident was not mentioned in Beorn's presence – he was sure he would be squished like a bug.

He probably deserved it, too.

The thought that Bilbo - the sweet, caring Bilbo with a temper that could easily rival a dragon's - had been living in slavery and pain for years filled him with such rage he could hardly stop himself from punching the nearest available surface. And he, in his blind ignorance, had reminded the hobbit of that horror with every cruel word and gesture.

Maybe Bilbo would reconsider taking his braid after all? He had no right to it anyway.

“Thorin.”

The dwarf looked up, his gaze meeting the hobbit's. Bilbo was watching him carefully as he reached out and touched the King's shoulder as if he was unsure of his welcome. Thorin's heart thumped painfuly in his chest at the sight.

“You should rest,” the Burglar said, his green eyes moving from Thorin's face to look over his bound wounds. Some of the deeper scratches had re-opened during their march to Beorn's house and needed binding, much to Bilbo's distress.

“I'm fine,” he said gruffly, pulling away. Bilbo looked pained for a moment, but his small face soon twisted in a scowl.

“You were chewed on by a warg and almost beheaded,” the hobbit snapped, “you're far from fine. You should _rest._ ”

“Halfling,” Thorin warned. Bilbo's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits and Thorin realized his mistake, “Bilbo,” he amended quickly and the hobbit nodded, satisfied.

“Don't argue wih me about this,” the Burglar said quietly, “ _please_.”

How could Thorin refuse, after all the pain he had caused him?

Grumbling with forced displeasure, the dwarf stood. His hand, as if living a life of its own, reached out to touch Bilbo's soft cheek very gently. The skin under his fingers, flushed a faint pink, was soft, softer than he could ever imgine. Thorin felt the sudden urge to lean down and taste the blush on his tongue.

He jerked back as if burned, heat creeping onto his own cheeks. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“I... Yes, fine. I will rest.”

Bilbo's answering smile made something in his stomach flutter unconfortably and the King wondered whether he had eaten something that disagreed with him.

 

*

Beorn had gone to patrol his lands after stories had been told and was yet to return after two days. Bilbo wandered around his house like a lost duckling looking for its mother.

His distress at the skinchanger's absence was so noticable even Kili and Fili started worrying about their hobbit. They had tried drawing him into a conversation, or simply sat with him quietly as they smoked, but the Burglar would quickly leave them and reasume his wandering, his eyes wide and frightened.

Thorin watched as the hobbit sat in the garden, surrounded by Beorn's dogs. The animals were trying to get the halfling's attention, whining and barking softly, but beside a few distracted pats Bilbo paid them no heed. The hounds quickly realized their attempts at play were in vain and laid down near the hobbit instead, licking his hands and face in silent comfort.

“He'll be fine, right?” the hobbit muttered to one of the dogs. It gazed back at him steadily, its big dark eyes shining with intelligence. It growled in response and the halfling sighed sadly. Thorin's heart clenched at the sight.

“Master Baggins,” he called out before he could think better of it, and marched down the porch towards the hobbit. The dogs gave him dirty looks as he came closer and left with an air of injured pride about them. Bilbo gazed up at him in a silent question. “Are you not cold?”

Fool. _Fool._ Of course he wasn't cold, it was _summer._

Bilbo smiled thinly, shaking his curly head. Thorin watched his hair bounce with the movement, mesmerized.

“No, I'm alright,” he answered, wringing his hands.

“What has you looking so miserable then, Master Burglar?” Thorin asked, though he knew the answer. Bilbo gave him such a pathetic look he was hard pressed not to yank the hobbit forward and hold him in his arms, to protect him from all perils and fears.

… Where did _that_ come from?

“Beorn is not back yet,” the halfling said, frowning. His eyes were haunted as he looked at the dwarf. He patted the space beside him with one pale hand.

“Master Beorn will be alright,” Thorin assured him, sitting down on the grass beside the Burglar. His hand, the treacherous thing that is was, curled around Bilbo's warm one, giving it (he hoped) a comforting squeeze. Bilbo stared at him in surprise for a long moment before his lip stretched into a shy smile. “You need not worry, Master Baggins.”

“Call me Bilbo.”

Thorin stared in astonishment. The hobbit was gazing at him seriously, his eyes (was that speckles of gold shining among the green?) bright with an emotion Thorin could not name.

“Bilbo, then,” he choked out, realizing he had been gaping like a fool. The smile Bilbo graced him with was so happy Thorin had to look away before he did something stupid.

“Why didn't you tell us?” he asked in a rush. Bilbo looked taken aback, and his hand tightened around Thorin's fingers. The dwarf squeezed back, trying to let him know he wasn't angry, and the hobbit relaxed a little.

“I was afraid,” the Burglar admited. “And Gandalf thought it would be for the best. My true form would not help you with the quest, anyhow. And since it had no impact on the Company there was no need to tell you.”

“True form?” Thorin murmured, his thumb moving on the inside of the hobbit's wrist on its own violition. He made no effort to stop it.

“Mhm... Beorn is not a man that can change into a bear. Rather, he's a bear that can change into a man. I'm the same. My true form, or my 'spirit' as my people used to call it, is what makes me who I am. I share it's strengths and weaknesses, though it's easier to control them in this form.”

 _Goldlust,_ his mind whispered, _Temper. Possessiveness. Jealousy. Bloodlust._

“Can you change into something else?” Thorin sounded genuinely curious and Bilbo laughed, shuddering as the broad thumb moved slowly along the veins on his wrist. His spirit growled in pleasure.

“In theory, but I have chosen a hobbit as my other form and it stuck, somehow. I'm very fond of it.”

When he was still a child, his family had lived among the sands of the Last Desert mostly in their spirit form, though they had sometimes shifted into Men if the situation called for it. They never considered Elves or Dwarves as suitable for their other forms. A combination of their spirits and Dwarves, who were known to be a greedy and passionate race, would be disatrous; the elves... well, the Were-Worms were never fond of them and shifting into one would be unpleasant, to say the least. They had never considered hobbits, since they had not known such race even existed – more the pity; Hobbits were remarkably resistant to greed. It would had been so much easier for his Tamerless kin to control their goldlust had they know about the halflings.

He himself had once tried to shift into an orc in a desperate attempt to escapte the Witch-King's clutches, but it only left him sick afterwards. He had paid for it later and still had the scars to prove it.

“Why a hobbit?”

Bilbo smiled bitterly.

“I suppose I can as well tell you, since you know I'm a skinchanger.” He thought for a moment about what he could and couldn't say and launched into his tale. “Before I became a slave to the Witch-King, my kin lived among the sands of the desert that is now long gone. We had been happy there, minding our own business. Then the orcs came and slaughtered most of my clan, including my mother and father.” The fingers around his tightened in sympathy. Bilbo swallowed around a lump in his throat, and continued: “The rest of us was captured and brought before the Witch-King. I think we were poisoned, somehow, for I remember being unable to fight back as they dragged us away and destroyed out homes. We were collared and beaten into submission. The Witch-King had bound us to his magic to obey his every command. Many of my kin had died in his dungeons, the rest in battles we didn't want to fight. I would have died also, were it not for Gandalf.”

“He saved you?” Thorin said hoarsely, his face blank. There was rage in his eyes, like a blue flame burning bright, and Bilbo shuddered.

“Yes. He broke the connection and stopped the warrior who was about to kill me. He told me where I could recover in peace. I fled to the Shire, shifted into a hobbit and lived there ever since.”

“How old are you?” the king asked in wonder, and Bilbo chuckled, amused.

“I'm not sure. My people paid very little attention to such things. But if I had to guess, I'd say I'm around a thousand years old, maybe more.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed.”

They sat in silence after that, their hands still joined. Bilbo ached to tell Thorin the truth, tell him about the pain and the battles and the countless of lives he had taken; he wanted the King to pull him close and _understand._ He wanted to tell him what his true form was, but he could not possibly risk the king's wrath. Despite their now friendly relations, there was no doubt that the dwarf would not hesistate to slay him had he known. No, he could not risk it, not now. Maybe with Smaug gone...

A hulking shadow moved between the trees and Bilbo jumped to his feet, staring as a great, black bear stepped out from the forest. Before Thorin could react and stop the hobbit, the little Burglar was already running across the garden straight to the bear. Thorin's eyes widened in horror as he watched the beast stop mid-step and sniff the air. His hand moved to grab Orcrist, but he realized that his weapon was lying on his bed in Beorn's house. He cursed his stupidity and jumped to his feet, ready to defend Bilbo with his own two hands.

But there was no need for that. The hobbit rushed to the bear with a joyful cry and launched himself at it, wrapping his thin arms around its great, furry head. The bear made a noise that sounded almost like a coo, nuzzling the hobbit's hair and face gently, and Bilbo laughed, his giggle high and delighted.

Jealousy clawed at the dwarf chest as he looked at the two and he turned around on his heel, stalking back into the house with a scowl.

He did not see Bilbo glancing back to look at him with a happy smile that vanished slowly as the hobbit saw the dwarf walk away.

The halfling turned to hide his face in Beorn's shaggy neck, marveling at the softness of his thick fur. The bear shifted suddenly, and Bilbo found himself hoisted up into the man's arms and hugged tightly to his broad chest.

“I have missed you,” Beorn grumbled, nosing behind Bilbo's ear and breathing in deeply.

“You were gone for a long time. I feared the worst,” the hobbit admited, tightening his hold on his cousin's neck. Beorn chuckled, leaning his cheek against Bilbo's hair.

“Don't be silly, little bunny,” he said, “I'm too old a bear to get caught by orcs.”

“'M not little and I'm certainly not a rabbit” the hobbit protested. “My spirit is bigger than yours.”

“And I wish we could spar,” Beorn admitted, making his way towards the house. Bilbo fidgeted in his arms and the man put him down with a displeased growl. The halfling shot him an amused look.

“I'd break you,” he said teasingly. Beorn roared with laughter, ruffling the hobbit's curls with affection.

“I'd like to see you try, lizard _ ”  _ the bear-man muttered, chuckling when Bilbo slapped his tigh at the insult. 

“Watch it, _ cub”,  _ the Burglar warned, “I'm way older than you.”

A noise of someone choking reached them and the hobbit whirled around. Kili and Fili stood there, their eyes wide as they gaped at the skinchangers, their faces red like tomatoes. Kili didn't seem to be breathing at all. Fili opened his mouth:

“Why is Master Beorn _naked?!_ ”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments, they're much appreciated! :)


	7. The Dark, Dark Forest

Leaving Beorn was harder than Bilbo had expected.

The skinchanger had urged him to stay, his pleading eyes hard to resist. But Bilbo couldn't. He couldn't abandon his treasure, his friends. He couldn't stay here and watch them burn from the safety of Beorn's home. He couldn't abandon the Shire. Beorn had sulked, of course, and refused to talk to Bilbo whenever he aproached him and tried to reason with the stubborn bear, but he had eventually accepted the hobbit's decision.

It didn't make leaving any easier though.

Beorn swept him into his arms as they prepared to depart, ponies and their riders impatient to move on with their quest, and Bilbo burried his face in his cousin's thick beard and tried not to cry. The bear-man's chest rumbled in a soothing purr-like noise and Bilbo leaned back, smiling through tears.

“I'll come back to visit soon,” he sniffed, avoiding Beorn's piercing eyes. The arms around him tightened.

“You better,” the man growled lowly, “or I'll have to fetch you myself.”

Bilbo laughed wetly and the urge to ask Beorn to come with them rose in his chest. He knew it was wishful thinking – Beorn had to stay and protect his animals and his lands from orcs. He couldn't leave them, just like Bilbo couldn't leave the dwarves.

“If you ever have need of me,” Beorn murmured into his ear, buring his face in Bilbo's curls, “call on me. I will come.”

“Alright.”

“ _Promise_ me, cousin,” Beon insisted, leaning away to look him in the eye. His face seemed to be set in stone, so stern and hard it was. “I will not see the last of my kin die, not if I can help it.”

His voice was cold, but he worry in his eyes betrayed his emotions, and Bilbo nodded with a smile.

“I promise.”

Beorn grunted in answer, reluctantly setting him onto the pony's back. It neighed nervously under him, but didn't try to bolt. Beorn patted it's flank with his huge hand, soothing it with long, even strokes.

“Go, then. And stay safe.” Here the skinchanger's fierce eyes moved to Thorin, who was watching their goodbyes with a blank expression. The King nodded solemnly, gaze flickering for a moment to the hobbit and softening ever so slightly.

Bilbo grabbed Beorn's hand once more, squeezing his thick fingers in last farewell, and followed the rest of the Company as they trotted away, one by one. Gandalf stopped at the skinchanger's side, smiling.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Beorn,” he said with a twinkle in his eye and the bear-man snorted, crossing his arms on his chest. His eyes were glued to the Company's smallest member.

“I ought to break your neck,” he murmured, “for keeping the existance of my family secret.”

“Ah,” Gandalf answered, not at all fazed by the threat. “But then, who would take care of our dear Bilbo?”

“Who, indeed,” he shapeshifter muttered. He sent Gandalf one more fierce glare. “You keep him safe, wizard. Or you and your dwarves will know my wrath.”

Gandalf inclined his head in acknowledgement, but the skinchanger already turned away, quickly disappearing among the trees. The old wizard shrugged, clicking his tongue to urge his horse into a fast trot.

When he caught up with the Company, a mighty roar thundered from the woods behind them. Bilbo whipped around, his eyes frantically scanning the forest. His lips stretched into a wide grin and he raised his hand in farewell with a laugh when a huge form of a bear appeared on a rock overseeing the clearing they were crossing.

At the sound of his laughter, the rest of the Company turned as well, eyeing the animal with distrust. Gandalf's eyes narrowed thoughtfully when Thorin's gaze darted towards their burglar, somewhat pained.

The bear stood on its back legs, tall and powerful, and roared once more, beating its front paws against its chest before falling back onto all fours.

Bilbo laughed again, delighted, his spirit giving an answering roar as they turned the bend and Beorn vanished from sight.

 

*

 

Had Bilbo had a list of all the places in Middle-Earth he would never visit again, under any circumstances, Mirkwood would be among the first five positions, to be sure.

The forest was sick. The evil residing among once green trees rendered them dark and twisted, looming threateningly above the Company. Sometimes, when the darkness and the exhaustion seemed to play tricks on his mind, Bilbo could swear the branches curled tighter against each other, shutting out even the tiniest of gaps in the canopy. There was no sun to light their path, no wind to bring relief from the stiffling, heavy air. Everything was still. Quiet.

Bilbo has experienced fear before. He was familiar with the blood curling terror sweeping through one's body like a slimy snake, wrapping around one's throat and squeezing, squeezing until all hope was lost. But fear can be controled, fear can be used and turned into something else, something much more dangerous. Rage. Devastation. Bilbo knew firsthand how dangerous anger born from fear could be, how desperate.

Fear like this, however, the hopeless despair at seeing his dwarves starving and exhausted, marching sluggishly along the elven path like ghosts, silent and dead-eyed... This Bilbo could not stand.

Of all the dwarves, Thorin remained strong and tall the longest, his step sure and determined. But even he flailed after days and days of marching in the endless forest, the darkness and the stillness playing on his mind as it played on others'. His slumped shoulders betrayed his exhaustion, his eyes searched frantically for any kind of hope for his Company.

They were going to die in this acursed forest even before they reach the Mountain.

Bilbo knew this insane quest would end like this. He knew it, he told Gandalf they wouldn't make it, but the wizard never listened to him, and now his hoard, his treasure, his dwarves were going to die; Fili and Kili, and Ori, all too young to be claimed by death and rot among the sick trees of Mirkwood; Thorin, his eyes open and empty, his lifeless body devoured by the creatures that lurked in the dark (Bilbo could see their eyes gleeming in the darkness, ever watching), all his dreams and goals dead with him...

Bilbo shook his head. No. No, there was no point thinking of it. They weren't dead. Bilbo would make sure it stayed that way.

As they walked along the narrow path, Thorin slowed, murmuring something to Balin before stopping on the side, his gaze sweeping over his exhausted dwarves as they passed him. Noone seemed to be surprised by this odd behaviour thoughThorin always walked at the front, leading them towards the Mountain and glory; yet he let Balin take over now and migrated to the back where Bilbo tried to keep up with the rest.

He fell into step with the hobbit, their sides brushing for the path was narrow and uneven. Bilbo's breath caught in his throat when Thorin's hand curled gently around his forearm, steady and strong. He scolded himself to think nothing of it – he had seen Thorin do the same to Fili and Kili, sometimes Dwalin, clasping their forearms as he talked to them in hushed tones. It was simply something Thorin did, nothing more...

“Are you alright?” Thorin asked, his deep voice a low murmur. Bilbo tried to smile reassuringly but, judging by the King's rather unimpressed look, he did not quite succeed. He sighed.

“I've been better. But truth be told, we all have been.”

Thorin hummed in response, carefully avoiding a gnarled root sticking from the ground. Bilbo scowled at it. Truly, it was as if the forest simply _wanted_ them to trip and break something.

A loud grumbling noise came then and Thorin looked around in alarm, his other hand gripping Orcrist. His fingers tightened around Bilbo's forearm. The hobbit himself was going quite red in the face and Thorin's eyes narrowed. His lips twitched.

“You're hungry,” he stated, letting go of his sword. Bilbo rolled his eyes, cheeks still tinged pink.

“We all are,” he muttered, rubbing his stomach. It was oddly flat, unlike the soft flesh Bilbo was so used to. He had lost weight on this mad quest. He scowled, displeased. He _liked_ his hobbit body, damn it.

Thorin looked at him a moment longer, his eyes lingering on Bilbo's hand still resting against his middle, before rumaging in his pockets. The hobbit looked at him suspiciously, lips thining with anger. His eyes flashed when Thorin put small piece of salted pork wrapped carefully in clean cloth into his hand.

“It's all I have left,” he said apologetically, still unaware of Bilbo's furious glare.

Bilbo twisted around and stopped in front of the King with a scowl. He janked his arm out of Thorin's grip, ignoring his spirit's mournful grumble at the loss of contact, and thrust the offending food into the dwarf's chest. Thorin blinked down at him, confused.

“Don't you dare,” Bilbo snapped, “give this to Fili or Kili. Or Ori! They need it most. I can take care of myself.”

Thorin frowned, anger flashing in his blue eyes.

“You're hungry,” he said again, taking a step forward. They were almost nose to nose, Bilbo's hand still pressed against the dwarf's chest.

“So is everyone else,” he answered, trying not to breathe in too deeply, not to lean forward and smell Thorin's hair and neck, not to nuzzle his bearded cheek.

Thorin scowled fiercely.

“Dwarves are hardy folk. We can manage. But you-”

“I'm a hobbit,” Bilbo snapped, fury almost blinding him. “I'm a hobbit, so you think I'm weaker than you?! Why, you arrogant-”

“Arrogant-!”

“Arrogant _and_ stubborn, damn you, how dare-”

“I'm _worried_ about you!” Thorin finally shouted, grasping Bilbo's arms and shaking him a little. His eyes were burning, piercing and determined, concern pinching the skin around them, and Bilbo felt his anger deflate.

The Company was quite a way ahead of them already, and yet they remained still, standing close, Thorin's breath almost caressing the hobbit's cheek, eyes locked.

“I'm fine,” Bilbo murmured. Thorin's eyelids fluttered closed for a moment and he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the skinchanger's. He sighed heavily, tightening his grip on Bilbo's arms. The hobbit felt his heart quicken its pace at the close proximity.

“Forgive me” he said, “I simply... I don't know what to do.”

During all those long weeks of the quest, after being nearly eaten by Troll and wargs, almost crushed under rocks in the Misty Mountains and killed by goblins, Thorin had never sounded so tired, so hopeless. Bilbo's heart broke for the King, his brave and loyal dwarf, and he slowly put the piece of food back into Thorin's pocket, ignoring his dark frown. He gently patted the dwarf's cheeks, hoping it would give even a tiny bit of comfort; the beard tickled the soft skin of his hands as he run them along the line of his jaw. Thorin's forehead pressed harder against his.

“We'll be fine,” he murmured quietly. Thorin made a small noise at the back of his throat and Bilbo smiled sadly. “I promise. We'll be fine.”

 _I'd rather die than let you all starve,_ he thought, stroking his hand once through the King's luxiurious hair. Thorin leaned into the touch slightly, humming under his breath and Bilbo shivered, the desire to bury his hands and face in the thick hair almost overwhelming.

“We should go on,” he whispered. His spirit growled, the yearning very nearly making him change his mind and yank the dwarf closer, but he forced himself to move, to turn away and start walking after the rest of the Company.

Thorin followed, quickly catching up and walking by his side. His fingers curled around Bilbo's forearm again, warm and reassuring, and the hobbit smiled.

 

*

 

Gandalf had left them at the edge of Mirkwood without as much as an explanation.

Thorin hadn't been susprised. After all, Gandalf was a wizard and wizards did whatever they pleased when fancy struck them. He had not been pleased, however, when the blasted meddler pulled Bilbo aside and talked to him for a long while in hushed tones, patting the hobbit's arm reassuringly when the halfling's little face turned pale, his eyes wide and alarmed.

Thorin had had to stop himself from coming over and soothing any distress that plagued his Bulglar. Instead, he busied himself with releasing the poinies from their burden, the heavy packs once again landing on the dwarves' backs. Noone complained. They had carried greater burdens in the past.

He had not been able to stop himself from glancing at the hobbit every now and again, however, watching him whisper something furiously to the wizard, his cheeks flushed with anger and his body tense as a bowstring, taunt with tension. The wizard had listened to him patiently before saying something that made the halfling hang his head and nod miserably. They had embraced then, Bilbo clinging to Gandalf's robes desperately, before the old coot jumped onto his horse with agility that defied his age and left at a high gallop with a cheery goodbye.

That was two, possibly three weeks ago. It was hard to say what day it was in the darkness of the forest – time seemed to pass at a different pace here, sluggishly slow, and Thorin lost count sometime into the sixth or seventh day of their march through the woods.

 _What were they talking about?_ Thorin wondered, watching Bilbo unroll his bedroll on the hard, unrelenting ground, mumbling to himself all the while about comfortable beds and soft mattresses. The halfling was so absorbed in his task he didn't notice that someone had stopped behind him. Thorin smirked to himself, leaning harder into the rock where he settled to keep watch. This should be entertaining.

 

*

 

“Does the tree-shagger know?”

Startled, Bilbo looked up from his bedroll and stared at Dwalin. The burly dwarf was standing behind him, his powerful arms crossed on his chest and a scowl set firmly on his face. Bilbo swallowed nervously, turning back to his task of unpacking for the night.

“What's that?” he asked, forcing himself to sound careless. Dwalin growled.

“The tree-shagger,” he repeated. He grimaced at Bilbo's blank stare. “ _Elrond_ , does he know about...” he waved his hand vaguely in the hobbit's direction, gesturing to all of him, “this.”

Bilbo's mouth opened in a silent “oh” of understanding.

“Yes, of course,” he said.

Dwalin nodded, as if the simple answer made everything make sense. Bilbo stared when the warrior sat down next to him, still glaring and scowling. Though maybe that particular expression on Dwalin's face simply served as a smile? Goodness...

“So, what are ya?”

“Pardon me?”

Ah. Not a smile after all.

“Yer a skinchanger, no? What is it? A pony? If it's a pony, you better change right quick and carry out packs.”

Bilbo scowled at the dwarf, crossing his arms with a huff, an air of injured pride about him. “No, not a _pony_. Even if I was, I wouldn't carry your pack for _you_ , you brute!”

The hobbit froze. Oh. Oh, that was bad. Very, very bad. He just insulted Dwalin, of all the dwarves in the Company, and now for sure he'd have his head bashed in with one of those ham-like fists armed with heavy knuckle dusters and...

He was laughing. Why was he laughing?

A huge hand landed on his shoulder then and the pats that followed almost sent Bilbo tumbling to the ground. “Yer alright, laddie!”

Bilbo sighed. If he distracted Dwalin, maybe the warrior would not question him any further...

“Dwalin,” came a sharp voice and both the dwarf and the hobbit turned to look at Thorin. The King was sitting nearby, leaning against a great boulder, his back straight and his eye alert. He wasn't scowling but a frown was set firmly on his brow. “Try not to injure our Burglar before we reach the mountain. It would be highly inconvenient to find another one on such short notice.”

Bilbo sent Thorin a cold glare but the dwarf's eyes glittered with amusement and he seemed to be holding back a smirk.

“Aye, aye,” Dwalin answered distractedly, standing up with a groan. “I'm getting too old for all this trecking across Middle Earth.”

“You're younger than me,” Thorin pointed out, tipping his head back a little. Bilbo's eyes latched onto the bared neck greedly, drinking in the sight of dark beard against the paleness of his skin. Oh, goodness...

“Ya must be positively falling apart then, princess,” Dwalin shot back, sending his cousing a feral grin. He spoke softly so that only the King and Bilbo could hear him. The hobbit frowned at that, but quickly understood why Dwalin was trying to be discreet in his teasing – Thorin was still King, depsite them being best friends and cousins, and he didn't want it to look like he was disrespecting the older dwarf in front of the whole Company.

Thorin growled.

“Watch it,” he warned, “I may be older, but I can still kick your arse.”

Dwalin bowed with grandeour, his beard almost touching the ground. His eyes were glittering with amusement.

“I'm quaking in me boots, Yer Royal Gruffness.”

Bilbo stiffled a laugh behind his hand, trying to control his giggles as Thorin looked at him darkly. The dwarf's hand pressed against his broad chest. “You wound me, Mister Baggins,” he said, “siding with the enemy? Why, I ought to banish you both, that would teach you.”

Bilbo snorted, turning again to his half-done task of unrolling his bedroll. “I'd like to see you try, Master Oakenshield,” he murmured, and the softly spoken words made Dwalin hoot out a laugh.

“Cheeky, that one,” he said to Thorin, pointing at Bilbo with his thumb. “I say we keep him.”

“I say you piss off to your side of the camp,” the King shot back, but is face gentled as he noticed dark bruises under Dwalin's eyes and the exhausted slump of his shoulders. “Go on, rest. I'll keep watch.”

Dwalin's eyes narrowed.

“You should get some rest, too,” he said, giving the other dwarf a stern look. “You've been running yourself ragged.”

Bilbo, sensing quite a row when Thorin straightened and the amusement left his face only to be replaced by a dark scowl, jumped between them, holding his hands out with a placating gesture.

“It's alright,” he assured Dwalin, “it's alright. I'll make sure he rests. No need to argue.”

“Wasn't going to,” Dwalin answered lightly and Bilbo sighed with relief. “Why argue when I could simply knock him out.”

“Try,” Thorin growled, getting slowly to his feet. The hobbit groaned in exasperation and threw his hands skywards with a scowl.

“I'm done with you dwarves,” he cried, “do whatever you want, knock your fool heads out if you wish, I'm having no part in this. Truly, two grown warriors and you're acting like spoiled brats, both of you! Dwalin, go and rest. Thorin, sit down before you collapse. I'll keep watch first.”

“You?” both dwarves said at the same time. They glanced at each other with faint smirks, and Bilbo breathed out a sigh of relief. Crisis averted.

“Yes, me,” he said firmly, snatching his bedroll and marching determinedly towards Thorin. He deposited his belogings and sat down heavily against the boulder, wasting no time in wrapping the thick bedroll around his shoulders to chase away the slight chill. “I can scream as loudly as you if something comes up. Rest,” he added in a gentler tone. “You're both exhausted. I can keep watch until it's Gloin's turn.”

Thorin looked down at him with a puzzled expression before sneaking a glance at Dwalin. The bald dwarf sniffed with distaste, but his eyes gentled when he looked at the hobbit.

“Alright,” he said finally, some of his gratiude shining through the gruff words. His arm snapped out, quick as lightning, to punch Thorin on the arm, hard enough to make the King grunt and retaliate with a hit of his own.

“Valar have mercy on me,” Bilbo murmured to himself, settling down more firmly against the hard stone and watching them trade a few more hits. They were standing too close for any of the Company to see their squabbling, thank goodness, and for a moment Bilbo enjoyed the view of Thorin being playful, even in such a rough manner.

It wasn't often that he had the chance to see the King's softer side, save for his dealings with his nephews, and he always enjoyed those rare times when Thorin acted like this. As if he had not a care in this world, as if his shoulders weren't burdened with the hopes and dreams of his people. As if he was a simple dwaf, not a King, for heavy was a head that wore a crown, indeed.

Bilbo startled when Thorin sat beside him, Dwalin having left already towards his own bedroll, and leaned back against the rock. The hobbit swallowed, cursing himself for his stupidity – of course Thorin wouldn't have left to find a new spot! The boulder was situated in a perfect position to keep an eye on all the members of the Company, so it was obvious that even resting Thorin would choose a place that allowed him to react quickly to any sign of danger and reach the others in a flash.

And now, out of sheer idiocy, Bilbo had sentenced himself to a whole night of sitting beside Thorin Oakenshield and guarding him while he slept.

Actually, it wasn't a bad thing at all, as far as his spirit was concerned.

“Thank you,” Thorin said after a while, his voice a low murmur. “I dislike arguing with Dwalin but sometimes he's so-”

“Pigheaded?”

“Yes, and-”

“And stubborn.”

“Yes, quite. And-”

“And proud to the point of being foolhardy.”

“Mister Baggins-”

“And arrogant, let's not forget about that.”

“That's quite enough, Mister Baggins, I see where you're headed with this,” Thorin said dryly and Bilbo chuckled quietly, his lips stretching wider when the King grunted with exasperation.

“You're very alike, you and him,” Bilbo said conversationally, picking at the seam of his bedroll. Thorin hummed.

“He followed me everywhere as a dwarfling,” he said quietly. “Wouldn't leave my side. Got an idea in that thick skull of his that he has to protect me at all times. But he was always quiet as a lad, whereas I was more adventurous in my youth, more... careless. I often skipped Balin's history classes to wander the forests on the slopes of Erebor. Dwalin was a solemn child, quite large and strong in comparison to other dwarflings. He started training by the age of seven, though most dwarves began no earlier than ten. By the age of fifteen he could knock his training master onto his rump without as much as breaking a sweat.” Thorin chuckled at the memory, but his face darkened again as he said: “He went after me to the battle of Azanulbizar. I told him not to, but the fool wouldn't listen. He was too young to witness war, had nightmares about it for months. Had I sent him back...”

“Thorin,” Bilbo said quietly, reaching out to touch the dwarf's hand. “He's well. Dwalin is well, he survived. Don't blame yourself. Dwalin wouldn't have listened to you anyway.”

“No, he wouldn't have,” Thorin admited, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He smirked slightly. “The fiercest warrior on the battlefield, despite his youth. Even when we faced certain death, he wouldn't leave my side.”

“A true friend,” Bilbo murmured, letting his hand fall from Thorin's. The king's warm fingers caught his in a warm grip, however, strong but gentle, and Bilbo felt a shiver travel up his spine. His spirit purred.

“That he is,” Thorin whispered back, tightening his grip on Bilbo's hand. His words started to slur slighty and his eyelids dropped in a long blink. The hobbit chuckled.

“Sleep,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing once against the dwarf's knuckles. “I'll keep watch.”

Thorin hummed in response, his head already rolling to the side. Soon after that his breathing evened out, quiet snores rumbling in his chest as he slept, and his grip on the hobbit's fingers slackened. Bilbo watched him, green eyes flashing gold for a fraction of a second, before he slowly moved Thorin's hand to rest on his broad chest.

He leaned against the boulder and stared into the darkness.

 

*

 

Bilbo should have known the Company wouldn't listen to Gandalf's warning. He should have known the subborness of dwarves was too much even for him to handle. How on earth could anyone expect him, a _hobbit,_ to stop a group of thirteen starving dwarves from leaving the elven path and racing towards what appeared to be a fire and a possibility of food, anyway?

Unsheathing his little sword, Bilbo walked into the forest after the Company, cursing and hissing as he went. Complete darkness descended around him, the foul smelling leaves brushing his cheeks and hair with each step; yet he marched onwards, listening intently to any sounds that might have been made by a dwarf. His heart was hammering in his chest, fear for his dear companions almost turning his legs to jelly. If something had happened to them, to the lads, to... to _Thorin..._ Bilbo shook his head sharply, scowling in the darkness at his own idiocity. Fretting like this was of little use when he had no idea what had befallen his dwarves, and unnecessary panicking would only make him clumsy. He had to be on high alert if he wanted to find the dwarves. Who knew what evil lurked in the shadows of the forest.

He walked deeper among the trees, trying to get used to the darkness around him, but as soon as his eyes got accustomed to the blackness around him, Bilbo wished to go back to sweet ignorance.

A large spider appeared right in front of him and he shrieked in surprise and fright, slashing blindly at the creature. It hissed when the sword grazed one of its hairy legs, all pairs of cruel eyes locked onto Bilbo, assessing.

“Worm,” it hissed and Bilbo growled lowly in his throat, fear overcomeing anger.

“Where are the dwarves?” he asked the spider and it clicked it's fangs in a parody of a laugh.

“Soft, juicy dwarves, we will feast, we will feast tonight,” it said, moving to and fro on its long, thin legs. Bilbo saw them go tense as it prepared itself to launch itself at him and he readied his sword, gripping the hilt tightly.

“You won't have any of them,” he snarled and the spider jumped with an angry shriek. Bilbo lashed out with a yell, the sword suddenly feeling awkward in his hands. His spirit howled, slashing at his skin from the inside to be released but Bilbo cursed violently and ignored its struggle, slashing and stabbing at the spider until it shrieked in pain.

“Stings! It's stings!” it cried when the little sword was rammed into its eye. The spider tensed, then slumped and fell, its legs twitching in the last throes of death.

Bilbo grimaced at the sigh of black blood on his elven blade. “Sting,” he muttered, nodding to himself. “Yes. Your name is Sting.”

Satisfied, Bilbo rushed forward to where the spider came from, his eyes darting to and fro in search of more foul creatures or his dwarves.

It wasn't long before he found the nest. There were three spiders there, and about a dozen of cocoons hanging from the trees. Horror making him almost unable to move, Bilbo realized those cocoons were his dear friends. His spirit wailed mournfully, its struggle to be free almost sending the hobbit to his knees, his pounding heart beating out an eacho of “ _dead, dead, dead_ ” in his head. The spiders, sensing his agitation, hissed and turned towards him.

Then, as Bilbo was contemplating letting the spiders eat him and be done with the whole thing once and for all, one of the cocoons _moved. It moved._ A low groan came from it, in a voice that sounded very much like Fili's, and suddenly his hearts mournful beatings changed into a crescendo of “ _alive, alive, alive_ ”. Bilbo rushed forward, meating the spiders half way with a furious bellow. His spirit roared with him and the spiders must have felt it too because they faltered, hesitated, giving Bilbo a perfect opening to attack. The first spider went down almost immediately, howling in pain before it stilled. The other two, overcoming their hesitance, hissed and launched themselves at him. Bilbo dodged, curses spilling from his lips as one of the claws pierced the skin on his arms. He fought wildly, stabbing and jabbing Sting at the spiders' eyes and slashing their legs, and before long the fight was over.

Bilbo stood over the corpses, panting with extersion, before running towards the cocoons. Ripping the sticky spiderweb with one precise slash of his little sword, he helped Fili down and patted the young prince down quickly to check for injuries.

“'M fine, 'm fine,” the dwarf mumbled, dazed, and ideed he was, though a bit battered and bruised. Bilbo scowled at him but remained silent, turning instead to the rest. Soon, all twelve dwarves were free, whole and hale save for the slight wobbling in the knees and exhaustion from the spider's venom.

Wait... Twelve?

“Where's Thorin?” he murmured, his eyes quickly moving from dwarf to dwarf as they collected their weapons piled nearby.

“What's that, laddie?” Balin asked distractedly, looking over his sword with a frown. Dwalin was grumbling to himself while he inspected Grasper and Keeper, and gave a rather startled yelp when Bilbo's hand curled in his beard and yanked his head down to his eye level.

“Where's Thorin?!”

Dwalin's eyes widened at the growl in Bilbo's voice and for some odd reason his instincts screamed at him to move and defend himself. The halfling's green eyes were narrowed in fury and the dwarf could have _sworn_ they flashed gold. Then the Burglar's words hit home and Dwalin looked around frantically.

“Where's Thorin?!” he roared. The Company froze in their places. The flurry of activity that followed almost made Bilbo loose his temper and throttle all of them, but he was too overcome by worry to do so.

Thorin was not with the Company, nor anywhere else in sight.

Another growl rose in Bilbo's throat. If the King had been hurt in _any way_ he would destroy this blasted forest and every foul creature that lived in it.

“Let's go,” he snapped, “we need to find him.”

But before he could take as much as a step, elves appeared.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! So, a note of explanation:
> 
> Dwalin, as we know from the canon, was born on TA 2772, which makes him 26 years younger than Thorin. The battle of Azanulbizar took place on TA 2799, so Dwalin would be only 27. He would be too young to participate in battle and he most likely didn't, unlike his father and brother - we have to remember that dwarves reach maturity at around 40 years of age, so he would still be considered a very young dwarf. BUT (deal with me here) in my headcanon Dwalin sneaks out after his brother and father to protect them and his Prince, whom he swore to defend. There. You can burn me on a stake if you wish, but my headcanon stays :D Ta!


	8. In the Halls of the Woodland King

Bilbo had never had any direct contact with the woodland elves before but Beorn's words about them being “less wise and more dangerous” appeared to be entirely true. Before the dwarves and the hobbit had a chance to take a step and search for Thorin, more than a dozen lithe figures dressed in dark green armours swept down from the trees around them, their bows and arrows at the ready before their feet even touched the ground.

Bilbo felt his spirit recoil at the sight of those sharp, pointy tips trained on him, but any fear he might have felt for his own safety was soon replaced by the blood-freezing terror for Thorin's. The dwarf was alone in the forest and even such skilled warrior as he would not be able to defend himself from the spiders should they ambush him. The image of the King's body being devoured by the foul creatures sprang to his mind and his stomach rolled unpleasantly. His spirit growled deep in his mind, worry making it nearly frantic, and Bilbo hoped he was strong enough to keep it contained. Should the dragon spring free while the elves were around...

Bilbo took no pleasure in devastation. And he had promised Gandalf he wouldn't kill any other creature. _I killed Gollum, though,_ he thought grimly. _And orcs and spiders. A few more elves wouldn't make a difference._

Somehow, the hobbit knew the old wizard would disagree.

The elves surrounded them, keeping them together in a tight circle, their faces completely blank despite growls and insults thrown their way by the dwarves. One of them stepped forward, his startingly blue eyes sharp and narrowed in suspicion. His blond hair spilled down his back in a way that unpleasantly reminded Bilbo of Glorfindel. His spirit grumbled grumpily at the though.

“Who are you, and what is your business in our forest?” the elf snapped, looking from one dwarf to another. He seemed to be taken aback when he spoted Bilbo, his eyes widening in astonishment. “A halfling?”

Bilbo bristled. “I'm not a half of anything, elf,” he snapped and the blond warrior's lips twitched in amusement.

“My apologies, Master Hobbit,” he said, “but I have not expected to see your kind so far away from the Shire. And traveling with a band of _dwarves_ , of all races.”

“What's that supposed to mean, you pointy-eared menace,” shouted Gloin, his hand tightening on the handle of his axe. The elves surrounding them pulled the strings of their bows further back in warning.

The blond elf barely spared Gloin a glance, his eyes still trained on Bilbo.

“They're my escort,” the hobbit said quickly, the lie rolling off his tongue with surprising ease. “I'm traveling to the Iron Hills. I'm a merchant, you see, wine merchant.”

“Wine?” The elf's interest had been piqued judging by the way his bow lowered slightly.

“Yes,” Bilbo confirmed, his mind racing. “Only all my samples have been lost when we ran into some trouble. Big, hairy, eight-legged trouble. And one of our companions is missing.”

The warrior stared at him for a while longer before barking something to the other soldiers. They lowered their weapons reluctantly, eyeing the dwarves with distrust.

“Perhaps others have found him,” the elf said, kneeling to be at the same eye-level as Bilbo. He bowed his head and touched his chest, saying: “Mae govannen. My name is Legolas.”

Bilbo bowed in return, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Well met, Master Legolas. Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

Legolas smiled and the hobbit's breath caught in his throat at the sight – the elf was very beautiful, his fair face nearly glowing, and Bilbo found himself almost unable to look away. A loud cough from the dwarves and a glower on Dwalin's face snapped him out of his reverie. Legolas chuckled, getting back to his feet.

“I need to find him,” Bilbo said firmly, but Legolas shook his head.

“It's too dangerous. If the others have found him, he'll be escorted to our halls. If not...”

Bilbo felt a growl rise in his throat. Legolas looked at him with astonishment when the hobbit's hands snuck into the gaps in his armour, finding the weaknesses of his garb with no difficulty at all, and yanked him down with immense strength. His eyes widened when they met with a furious glare of the halfling's geen ones. He blinked, trying to clear his head – he could have sworn they flashed gold...

“If not,” the hobbit snarled, his face twisted into a grimace of rage, “I will strip this acursed forest bare, leaf by leaf, until I find him. And if he's _dead_ ,” his voice cracked slightly, “you will know my wrath.”

The hobbit released him and Legolas took a hasty step back, his heart thundering as if it wanted to leap out of his chest. His body was shaking in terror, yet the elf did not know why: his instincts were crying at him to turn around and run, though they had no reason to. Bilbo was a hobbit. Hardly threatening.

The halfling's face was once again gentle and innocent, and Legolas wondered whether he had imagined the whole encounter. He looked around – the other elves were staring at Bilbo, but there was no alarm on their faces, only simple curiosity. They had not heard what the hobbit said to him. Odd.

Legolas frowned and opened his mouth to say something scanthing that would put the hobbit in his place and remind him that he was entirely at his mercy, but all that came out was: “Of course, Master Baggins. Follow me, the city is not far from here.”

The smile the hobbit graced him with could be only called beatific.

“Why, thank you, Master Legolas. How kind of you.”

Legolas's eyes widened as he turned around to lead the company of twelve dwarves and one hobbit to his father's halls.

_What on Middle-Earth was happening?_

 

 

*

 

The journey through the forest was long and exhausting – the elves allowed no break and Bilbo could hardly protest. They needed to get to Thranduil's halls as quickly as possible. If Thorin wasn't there...

The hobbit turned to look at his tired companion and his heart broke at the sight. The dwarves marched in a line, surrounded by elves, and yet there were no isults thrown at their elven guards, no gruttual talk in Khuzdul, no song. His companions were silent, their heads bowed in exhaustion, their steps sluggish. They were still weakened from the spider's venom and hunger, Bilbo knew, but they could not rest now, not when they were in the middle of the acursed forest. Not when they needed to find their leader.

Bilbo scowled to himself. Oh, the bloody dwarf would regret ever being born when Bilbo was through with him! Running off into the blue after his Company, without as much as by your leave from Bilbo, getting _caught_ and almost _eaten_ by giant spiders... Stupid, stupid idot of a dwarf!

The hobbit shook his head, pressing his hand to his flushed cheek. His spirit was still unsettled, scratching at him and wailing to be released, pleading to search of Thorin on their own, and the sudden realisation of what that meant almost sent Bilbo to his knees. If it wasn't for Legolas' steadying hand on his shoulder he would have tumbled to the ground.

“My thanks,” he mumbled and the elf nodded, his face carefully blank. Bilbo instantly regretted threatening him, but did not try to apologise. He had nothing to be sorry for, except maybe losing his temper. But he could hardly be blamed for that.

They continued on, Bilbo's mind whirling. He had known for a long time that his spirit was unusally attatched to the Dwarf King. He knew his safety was his biggest concern, even more so than the safety of the rest of the Company. He loved them all fiercely, but the thought of losing Thorin made his mind and spirit freeze in downright terror, as if his very heart was being thorn in twain. He knew the pain of loss, knew the despair that came with death of his treasure, but this fear was new, unfamiliar. Fierce like dragonfire and equally devastating.

Thorin was his Tamer. How had he failed to notice?

Thorin, despite being a dwarf, was his _Tamer_. His Heart. The only one to rein in his wild spirit, the only one he would treasure above all others. The only one who could control his goldlust, the only one to save him from it.

What a blind fool he had been. And now Thorin was gone, maybe wandering the forest on his own, lost and starving. Bilbo had to stop himself from running back where they came from and search until he found his Heart. But Thorin could be safe and sound in the halls of the Woodland King. He had to be sure.

The gate to Thranduil's kingdom was huge, surrounded by curling trees that looked remarkably healthy in comparison to the ones deeper in the forest, and Bilbo wondered whether the elven magic guarded them from harm just like the trees guarded the entrance to their homes. The elves standing at the gate snapped to attention as Legolas neared them, their faces hard and cold as if carved in marble.

“Welcome home, Your Highness,” one of them said, looking firmly ahead, but there was a spark in his eye that made Legolas smile slightly. He nodded in thanks, waiting for the gate to be opened before them. He turned to the dwarves, ignoring Bilbo's curious glance.

“Leave your weapons here,” he said, and the dwarves grumbled, clutching their precious swords and axes to their chests. Bilbo sighed, but not before sending Legolas another long look.

“Don't be stupid,” he snapped, janking Kili's bow out of his grasp and ignoring his outraged whining as he handed it, and Sting, over to a waiting elf. “There's no time for that, we need to find Thorin.”

Thorin's name worked like a spell, it seemed, and soon all the weapons were heaped into the elf's unsuspecting arms. Bilbo patted his arm slightly when the elf wobbled under their weight.

“Put them somewhere safe, please,” he said and the elf bowed after looking for a confirmation from his prince, who gave him a short nod.

“Follow me,” Legolas said, briskly crossing the gate and a wide bridge leading into the city. Had Bilbo been less concerned for Thorin's safety, he might have appreciated the beauty of Woodland Realm a little bit more; the swirling staircases that seemed to go up and up endlessly, curling around mighty trees like snakes; the warmth and light coming off the lanters hanging on the thick branches, the sound of soft laughter and gentle song. He would have watched with awe the swirling dance of specks of dust turned golden by the light, the beauty of elven maids gliding gracefully to and fro around them, their eyes widening in surprise at the sight of dwarves and a hobbit in their halls.

As it was, Bilbo's eyes were trained on Legolas' back as the prince lead them through the city, his mind whirling.

He knew of Thranduil though they had never met in person, and Bilbo wondered whether the Elven King would recognize him. It was clear that the prince and his guards hadn't, but Thranduil was older than them, more powerful. If the magic surrounding the trees at the gate was his doing, he would have no problems in seeing through Bilbo's hobbit form.

The halfling narrowed his eyes. He had no doubt that Thranduil would try to kill him. That much was obvious. But he also knew that his spirit would break free as soon as the elf would lift his hand to signal his archers to shoot him. If that happened, the devastation it would cause would be... unforgivable.

“I need to speak to the King alone,” he said when they reached a richly decorated gate that lead to the throne room and Legolas turned to him with his eyebrow rised in silent surprise. As expected, the dwarves gave a cry of refusal, the princes' loud “absolutely not!” nearly making his ears tingle. Dwalin crossed his thick arms on his chest and stared at him sternly as if to say “forget about it, laddie”, and Bilbo scowled at them all in return.

“Enough!” Legolas snapped, rubbing his forehead and grimacing at the ruckus the dwarves were making. “If Bilbo Baggins wishes to speak to my father alone, then he will.”

“Wait here,” the hobbit murmured to his companions, his face softening at the worried looks they were throwing him. “It'll be alright. Don't fret.”

With a last smile thrown over his shoulder, Bilbo entered the throne room.

 

*

 

Though Bilbo had never before seen a throne room, be it of dwarven, elvish or man make, he could not imagine anything that would be grander than Thranduil's. The hall was huge, big enough to easily contain Bilbo's true form with room to spare, with beautifully carved wooden pillars that seemed to grow from the floor itself, twisting and winding up and up until they disappeared from sight above him like massive serpents. The floor itself was made of stone, white and gold streaks running through it gleaming in the strange light of the lamps and torches that cast warm, glittering shadows in the corners of the room. Bilbo could barely move his eyes away from it, the golden lines twinking merrily back at him in the dim light – they were not actualy gold, of course, but pretty none the less and the hobbit felt his spirit rumble with appreciation at the beautiful sight.

The throne itself was large and ostentatious, but no less grand – it was made entirely of antlers woven together expertly to form a cradle that served as a chair, upon which the Elven King was seated.

Bilbo straightened, instinctively moving his hand to the front of his ruined waistcoat to smooth out the wrinkles. A vain attempt to look respectable, he knew, but he was a hobbit as much as he was a skinchanger, and he could not abide looking like a beggar, especially not in front of a King whom he was about to threaten.

“Hail, Thranduil, son of Oropher, King of the Woodland Realm!” he said as he neared the throne and bowed respectfully. Thranduil spared him no glance – he was leaning towards an elf standing to his right, murmuring something to him in Sindarin in hushed tones as the other scribbled down every word, a frown of concentration marring his pretty face.

“I have been informed,” Thranduil started, his eyes never leaving the scribe's quill, “that there is a _hobbit_ traveling through my forest with a group of dwarves. And unlikely story and all the more suspicious for it. Tell me, Master Baggins of the Shire, _wine merchant_ , what is your true purpose here?”

Bilbo remained silent. Finally, the scribe left with a bow and the King straightened in his throne, turning towards him.

Had Bilbo been more prone to panic, he might have been more than alarmed at the fury that sprung into Thraduil's clear blue eyes when their gazes met. As it was, he stood his ground unflinchingly, his hands clasped behind his back.

“You,” the elf spat, leaning forward in his seat. “You dare to come here, _Worm?_ Guards!”

In an instant, even before Bilbo could open his mouth to say anything at all, there were bows trained on him from each niche and shadowy corner of the hall, the archers half hidden in darkness grim-faced. Bilbo raised his hands placatingly.

“No need for that, Your Majesty,” he said. “We both know how it would end. Tell your guards to lower their weapons. I might ah- “here he rubbed his chest lightly, “lose control. And we wouldn't like that. Not one bit.”

Thranduil glared at him for a long moment but after a flick of his wrist the elven guards lowered their bows and stepped back into the shadows and out of sight.

“What do you want?” Thranduil spat, standing up from his throne. His beautiful robes whispered as he moved, the rich silver fabric gleaming and glittering, complimenting the elf's etheral beauty. Bilbo smiled, not unpleasantly.

“I'm not here to cause trouble, O King,” he assured the elf, voice smooth and soothing. Thranduil scoffed, “my Company and I were merely passing through your forest when spiders took us by surprise.”

“And who gave you permission to trespass my lands?” Thranduil inquired, one of his eyebrows rising slowly in curiosity.

“I did not know permission was needed,” Bilbo said with a chuckle. The King glared and the hobbit sobered, his gaze hardening dangerously. “But he have lost one of our companions. Have your guards found him?”

Thranduil smirked, his fine features twisting in a nasty grimace. “Another dwarf? Or one of your kin, perhaps?”

Bilbo snarled, his eyes flashing gold. “My kin is dead,” he all but spat. “The dwarves are my family now. And if my lost companion is not here, O King, I will rip apart your forest to find him. I will destroy it, bit by bit, until there is nothing left but bare stumps and twigs. And if my friend is dead, you'll pay with blood.”

The hobbit took a step forward, his face twisted in rage, and his green eyes turned golden, shining with a strange glow. But it was the sight of the halfling's skin thining, stretching to show the smallest of hints of the rippling yellowed scales on his cheek that had Thranduil back away and shout in Sindarin for his guards.

With a low whistle an arrow cut the air, but Bilbo moved with lightining speed and it missed its mark by a hairsbreadth, barely nicking the hobbit's shoulder. Bilbo flinched and hissed. The arrow clattered to the white floor.

“ _You dare?_ ” he cried and his voice was terrible, booming like thunder, “ _you dare attack me, Thranduil? Your arrows are useless against me. There is no Sorceress* to enchant them to pierce through my scales, no magic strong enough to help you. You are at my mercy and you will OBEY.”_

He saw the archers draw back the strings of the bows once more, ready to rain their arrows upon him and he braced himself, feeling his skin stretch and burn. _A moment longer_ , the thought desperately, his spirit howling in fury, _just a moment._

“Stop!” Thranduil cried then and the archers froze. “Stop! Do not attack him.”

Bilbo felt his shoulder relax a fraction and he willed his spirit to calm, soothing its rage with thoughts of Thorin. The memory of his hands, strong and large, so warm against his skin, eased his spirit's anger and it wailed mournfully.

“Have you found my companion?” Bilbo asked, his voice once again quiet and even. Thandruil's face was pale, his eyes wide in fright.

“Yes,” he said, and despite his fear his voice didn't waver nor break. The King stood tall and proud, his hands clenched, and Bilbo admired his bravery for a moment. “If the companion you speak of is Thorin Oakenshield.”

The relief that swept through Bilbo almost made his stagger, his spirit's joyful roar reverberating through his bones and making his heart sing. Thorin was alive. He was alive and here, somewhere close, not starving in the forest at the mercy of spiders.

“Oh thank Valar,” he muttered, ignoring Thranduil's curious gaze. “Where is he?”

“In the dungeons,” the King sneered, obviously displeased with how their conversation turned out. “I thought it might loosen his insolent tongue.”

Bilbo chuckled at that, once again clasping his hands behind his back. “I wouldn't count on that.”

Thranduil watched him for a long while, his sharp gaze searching his face for something. He nodded to himself, satisfied with whatever he had found, and sat down in his throne.

“What do you want, then, Worm?” he asked, and though he appeared nonchalant, Bilbo knew it was simply pretense. He smiled.

“Not much, Your Majesty. Let the Company eat and rest in your halls for the night, for we are weary from our travels. Release Thorin Oakenshield from the dungeon and let us all go. And I promise that no harm will come to you and your kin.”

“Word of a _Worm_ ,” the elf sneered, “means nothing.”

Bilbo frowned, his temper flaring again. “I am not a child of Morgoth,” he snapped. “If I say you will come to no harm, then you shan't. Not from me.”

Thranduil seemed to consider his words and finally nodded, though his face was still twisted in a grimace of disgust. “Very well. You will have what you ask for. But if you and your dwarves are not gone by tomorrow morning, _you_ will know _my_ wrath.”

Bilbo's smile was a terrible thing to behold. “As you say, my Lord. Now, about that arrow,” Thranduil stiffened in his throne. Bilbo's golden eyes gleamed, “don't do it again.”

And with that, the halfling turned on his heel and moved to the door, completely ignoring the guards that watched him go from the shadows. He turned once more before leaving, his hand resting gently on the wooden carving of an elk on the entrance to the throne room.

“You will tell the dwarves nothing about me,” he said quietly, but his voice could be clearly heard in the entire hall. “For you, I am a simple wine merchant traveling to the Iron Hills. It would be wise to remember that.”

Then he was gone.

 

*

 

The dwarves were gone when Bilbo stepped outside the throne room, much to his relief. He sagged against the door for a moment, his exhaustion and hunger taking their toll. Now that he knew Thorin was safe he allowed himself a moment of weakness and he leaned hard into the smooth wood of the door. The carvings dug unpleasantly into the soft skin of his back but he cared little for it. He was alive and, more importantly, he had managed to control his spirit long enough to stop it from sheding their hobbit skin and going on a rampage through the Woodland Realm searching for Thorin.

It wouldn't have ended well, for either party.

Bilbo pushed himself away from the door slowly. Not a second later an elf came into view, gesturing for him to follow. The hobbit's eyes narrowed suspiciously but he complied, his steps slow but sure as he went after the elf. She inclined her dark head in greeting and with a soft smile she led him through the long corridors, politely matching her steps with Bilbo's shorter ones. He returned her smile, though he knew it a weak attempt. But he was so tired...

After a long march, the elf stopped in front of a plain wooden door and Bilbo could already hear the dwarves' raised voices and the clinks and clutters of goblets and plates. His mouth watered at the thought of food and he all but ran through the door. The she-elf left with a quiet chuckle.

“Bilbo!” someone cried and two bodies slamed into him without warning. He squawked with surprise, trying to find his footing as Fili and Kili clung to him desperately. “Do they have Uncle?!”

“They do, indeed,” said another voice behind them and all three spun on their heels. Thorin walked in through the door, his face grim and dirty, but there was a glint in his eyes when his nephews descended onto him with a joyful shout. They embraced tightly, the lads murmuring frantically in Khuzdul and the Dwarf King reassuring them with a calm, deep voice, his large hands stroking their hair as he talked to them in the same tongue.

The rest of the Company rushed to greet their leader, their beards and clothes already stained with hastily gobbled down food and drink, and there was a great deal of laughter and back-slapping. Bilbo retreated to the corner of the room, soaking in the sight of his hoard complete once again, all of them safe and sound. His gaze never left Thorin's form as the dwarf greeted each and every member of his company with a light touch of his brow against theirs. It was nothing like the blessing Bifur had bestowed on Bilbo at the foot of the Misty Moutains, the touch too brief, but it served its purpose to reasurre and comfort. Bilbo's heart swelled in his chest, the exhaustion and hunger momentarily forgotten.

Then the dark blue eyes turned to him and Thorin pushed through the small crowd, marching towards the hobbit with a determined stride. Before Bilbo could say anything, muscular arms wrapped around him and he was yanked forward to the broad, hard chest. Thorin hugged like he did everything else – with his whole heart behind it, his body close and warm, his arms wrapping firmly around Bilbo's slighter frame. His hot breath stirred the curls framing the hobbit's ear and the skinchanger shivered, leaning into the embrance.

“Bilbo,” the dwarf murmured, his arms tightening around the Burglar, “I thought you dead.”

Bilbo chuckled into the soft material of Thorin's tunic, breathing in the dwarf's scent. His spirit purred at their closeness, the remaining rage and bloodlust completely gone. “Dead? Ha! It would take more than a few spiders to take this hobbit down, I tell you.”

Thorin head lowered, resting against Bilbo's shoulder, and the King exhaled heavily. “You are a wonder, Master Hobbit,” he whispered, his lips grazing the slightly pointy ear. Bilbo bit back a whimper, though Thorin appeared not to have noticed. The dwarf moved away slowly, but his arm was wrapped firmly around the halfling's waist as they moved to the table. “What on Middle-Earth have you told Thranduil?”

The rest of the Company was already steated, once again eating and carousing, and quite obviously pretenting they haven't been watching the two mere seconds ago.

“Before I tell you,” he said sweetly, taking a step away from Thorin. His spirit grumbled unhappily at the distance and the dwarf frowned with displeasure. Bilbo's smile turned as sharp as his gaze. The dwarves froze at the tone of his voice, their faces paling under the hobbit's fierce glare.

“What were you idiots _thinking?_!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mae govannen (Sindarin) - Well met. 
> 
> *Sorceress - refering to Galadriel herself. No fear, all shall be explained later on.


	9. Bygones Be Bygones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, my dears, I have managed to finally post another chapter. It is not the longest, I know, and I apologize for that. I shan't make excuses for not posting anything sooner, because I do not believe that you are interested :D and, why would you be :P But please know that I am so very busy right now, that writing anything at all is almost impossible. I will try to write more as soon as I am able. I will not abandon this fic, for sure, so no worries.
> 
> Please, be patient with me ;_;

As promised, Thranduil allowed them to rest and feast in his halls, and though Thorin grumbled and cursed under his breath at the Elvenking, even he was more than pleased with the comofrtable beds and the food given to them. There was no meat on the table, but the dwarves, for once, seemed no to care – they ate with hastiness that came from hunger, gobbling down their meals at alarming speed. Bilbo hadn't had the heart to remind them of stomach pains that came from too quick an eating. The dwarves had had enough of his motherings after all and though some of them seemed amused when he chastised them for running around the cursed forest like blind fools (Dwalin had the nerve to look _smug),_ they promised not to do anything so foolish in the future. Unless it was necessary for the good and success of the Quest, of course.

Thorin himself listened to the Burglar quietly, eating his meal with surprisingly good table-manners, something Bilbo had rarely seen from the dwarves so far. They were a jolly bunch, hearty and quick to laughter, but the simplest instructions of how to behave at the table seemed to escape them every time Bilbo even thought about mentioning it. But then, Thorin _was_ king, albeit exiled, and his table manners should not be that surprising.

Nevertheless, while Biblo snarled and threatened to leave the dwarves at the mercy of the Elves, and good riddance, the King himself ate and drank his fill without a word; sometimes a shadow of a smile would pass along his lips when the lads had the cheek to aggravate the poor hobbit even more, and each time the skinchanger's heart would beat a little bit faster, the dragon-half of his soul rumbling pleasantly, the echo of its purr making his body almost vibrate.

Oh, the very thought of Thorin made him flush! How could he not notice before that the dwarf was his Tamer? What a fool he had been, what a blind fool. His mother would have had a field day with him had she known, not to mention Belladonna. They would have boxed his ears, both of them. Not to realize the other half of his soul was so close (close enough to reach out and tangle his hand in the thick, luxurious hair spreading freely across the dwarf's shoulders like a heavy curtain; close enough to kiss those stern, thin lips and feel them yeld and soften under his own), his very Heart... unforgivable. Had it not been for his pride, he would have noticed sooner, to be sure.

Bilbo grimaced. His pride, indeed. What about the King's pride? Bilbo was not the only one to blame here. Thorin had worked hard to make Bilbo dislike him from the very beginning. Calling him a mere “grocer”, indeed; proclaiming him a _burden;_ arguing with him at every possible moment, and making him lose his temper... Oh, Thorin Oakenshield was as much to blame for this whole mess as Bilbo was, and no mistake!

Now that the hobbit knew, the issue was whether to tell Thorin.

Bilbo slowly stopped chewing, his mind whrilling. What if Thorin did not feel the same? What if dwarves did not have Tamers, or soulmates, or anything even resembling such a thing? What if they were more like Men, who mated with whomever struck their fancy, sometimes even dismissing the sacred vows they made to their spouses and laying with another?

Blood froze in his veins at the very thought of sharing Thorin with another and his spirit growled in warning. He glanced at the King sitting at the top of the table, deep in a conversation with Balin. He seemed relaxed, or as relaxed as he would let himself be in the house of one of his most hated enemies, but his face was pale and bruised with exhaustion. The King seemed so very tired Bilbo was surprised he was still able to sit and talk with the rest, though even they were already showing signs of tiredness, now that their bellies were sated. The King's eyes flickered to the Burglar's, as if he could feel the weight of the hobbit stare, and their gazes met and held for a brief moment. Bilbo could feel his ears flush with heat, and he thanked the stars that his hair had grown enough to cover the pointy tips. Thorin's icy eyes roamed his face for a second before moving on to another member of his Company. Bilbo's blush receeded slowly as the feeling of disappointment rose in his chest. Of course Thorin wouldn't look at him differently from the others. He was concerned, yes, but in the same way he was concerned for Bombur, Gloin, Nori and the rest of his Company. He was their leader. It was his job to take care of them as much as he was able.

No, telling him was out of the question. At least for now. Maybe after they reclaimed the Lonely Mountain...

Bilbo sighed heavily, his appetite gone. Bifur was leaning against him slightly, his eyes dropping in long blinks. The hobbit looked at him and shrugged gently, nodding towards the doors to the chamber where they were to sleep. Bifur grunted in understanding and stood, patting Bilbo's shoulder and he mumbled something in Khuzdul to the other dwarves. Oin nodded, also standing up.

“Time for bed, me think,” he said, “these old bones need their well deserved rest.”

A chorus of “ayes” and “hear, hears” arose from the Company, and the rest of their merry gathering rose up and, mumbling their “good nights”, they retreated to the sleeping chamber where soft mattresses were laid out for them. Thorin remained seated, however, only briefly clasping his hand on his nephews' shoulders and nodding at the rest, his eyes tired but no longer as despairing as they were back when they were wandering the forest.

Bilbo looked away from the King, berating himself for staring, _again_ , and also prepared to leave.

“Bilbo,” Thorin called out. “I would have-”

A noise at the door stopped him midword and they both turned towards it. There was an elven maid standing at the door, the same one who showed Bilbo the way to these chambers earlier. She nodded at Thorin, but her attention quickly shifted to the hobbit.

“My king wishes to speak with you, Master Baggins. If you would follow me,” she said, her voice quiet and wonderfully melodic. Bilbo sighed, rubbing his face with his hands to get rid of the tiredness that made his eyes drop. Oh, how very tired he was...

“Why?” Thorin snapped rudely, taking a large gulp of his watered down, elvish wine. He grimaced, ostentatiously wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Bilbo sent him a telling look, but the King ignored him.

“That, Master Dwarf, I do not know,” the she-elf said politely, but there was an edge to her words and an annoyed look in her lovely eyes as she gazed at the dwarf.

“Bilbo goes nowhere, not alone, and certainly not to your _King_ ,” Thorin spat, rising slowly. Bilbo glared at him.

“That is my decision to make, thank you, Your Majesty,” he said, knowing how it would annoy the dwarf. And indeed, the heat of Thorin's glare turned to him.

“Bilbo,” Thorin started, his voice dangerously low. Bilbo's eyes narrowed.

“Get some rest, Thorin,” he said, almost gently despite his annoyance. “I will be back soon.”

He stepped around the table then, noticing with interest how Thorin's hand clenched and unclenched at his side, as if he was stopping himself from reaching out and grabbing the hobbit. He shuddered at the image that sprang uninvited into his mind. Ah, but to feel those warm, rough hands sliding along his skin...

He shook his head sharply. No, not now. Not when he's about to see Thranduil once more.

“Trust me,” he murmured to Thorin as he passed him and the dwarf scowled.

“It's not you I do not trust,” he mumbled back, and Bilbo bit back a smile. With one last look at the King, his Tamer, his _Heart_ , he followed the elf out of the chamber and down to Thranduil's rooms.

 

*

 

The King's chambers were like Thranduil himself – extravagant and elegant, but cold. Bilbo gazed at the high ceiling and beautifully crafted furniture decorated with sparkling gems (he did not look at them _too_ closely, mind), and a sudden homesickness for his beloved Bag End with its warmth and comfortable armchairs and a large kitchen almost made him stagger. He rested his hand against a cold marble pillar next to the door, trying to push away the longing for his home. This was not the place, nor time, to get sentimental.

“Ah, Master Baggins,” came a melodious voice from deeper into the rooms and Bilbo moved towards it slowly, eyes darting to and fro looking for any sign of archers hidden in the dark corners. There was noone except him and the King.

“Your Majesty,” he greeted as he stepped into the centre of the room. Thranduil was reclaining on a large chaise lounge, his long body stretched out to its full length, much like a cat basking in the warmth of the roaring fire. His long, silver hair fell in a gentle cascade onto his shoulders and chest. He cut quite a striking figure, beautiful and etheral, and had Bilbo's heart not been devoted to Thorin and Thorin alone, he might have been tempted by the Elvenking's beauty. As it was, he bowed shortly, noting with faint amusement the King's displeasure.

“A hobbit” the King said, slowly rising from his position. Bilbo's eyes narrowed. “Is that the form you have chosen, Were-Worm? Hm. Most unusual.”

“Indeed,” Bilbo said, clasping his hands behind his back. “Unusual, but not without merit.”

“Oh?” The Elvenking's eyebrows rose in surprise. “How so? I remember your _kin_ disliked changing their skin, never mind for so long.”

“Adapt or die, as the saying goes,” he said carefully, not knowing where this conversation was going. If Thranduil simply wanted to _chat_ when Bilbo barely kept his eyes open... oh, there would be consequences.

“How true,” the elf murmured, his strinking blue eyes boring into Bilbo's. “And yet your kin is dead. I suppose they did not... ah, adapt.”

Bilbo clenched his teeth, eyes blazing. “No,” he said slowly. “They did not.”

Thranduil nodded, as if sadly, but his eyes were cold like chips of ice. The fear that appeared in those eyes when Bilbo had surprised him in the throne room was all but gone now; all that remained was the cold, calculating gaze that seemed to bore into the skinchanger's very soul.

“Were-Worms,” the King muttered quietly. “You have killed many of _my_ kin.”

Ah.

“Yes,” Bilbo admited, swallowing heavily. The guilt he had carried in his heart for so long burned bright once more at the elf's quiet words. “Yes, I have.”

Thranduil inclined his head thoughtfully. “Yet you expect me to simply let you go.”

“I did not kill your brethen because I wanted to,” Bilbo whispered. Thranduil eyes narrowed.

“No? Ah, yes. I have heard about your _enslavement_ . Mithrandir defended you quite admirably before the White Council. But tell me, _Worm,”_ the King's beautiful face twisted with contempt, “why should I believe the wizard's words? Or yours, for that matter. I have seen your kin in the sky, flying above the battlefield along the Enemy's dragons. I have seen you bringing death and destruction upon my brethen. _Malthen N_ _ehtar_ , my people had called you, the Golden Slayer.”

“It has been a long time since I heard that name,” Bilbo said. His feet were aching terribly – all he wanted to do was go back to the chamber, to his dwarves, to _Thorin_ , and sleep. “King Thanduil,” he spoke again, louder this time, “I have not killed your brethen because I wanted to. The Witchking of Angmar, as you know, was a terrible foe. And more powerful than any of my kin. His magic bound us to his will and we could do nothing but follow his every command,” his voice grew harsher, but Bilbo paid it no heed. The ache in his chest, the _guilt,_ intensified. “I shall not try to explain to you, O King, the torment and the pain that my kin had endured from the Witchking's hand. You speak of _your_ people dying under my claws, yet you do not mention your brethen's arrows that murdered _mine_ .”

Thranduil stared at him for a long while, leaning back again against his seat. He seemed thoughtful.

“You speak the truth,” he admited finally, though with great reluctance. His eyes, piercing and sharp like a spear-point, turned sad, almost melancholic as his mind wandered back into the past. “Your kin killed many of mine; but thanks to Lady Galadriel's magic we were able to avenge them.”

Bilbo shook his head. “The enchanted arrows. Strong enough to pierce through our scales. But it was not the arrows that killed most of my people.”

“No,” Thranduil said slowly. “The wizard spoke of this. The torture.”

“Yes,” Bilbo murmured, rubbing his shoulder subconsiously. The phantom pain flared to life, but it had been a long time since his wings were thorn and bleeding. The pain was only a memory now.

The Elvenking rubbed his forehead with his pale, slim hand. He seemed weary all of a sudden, as if the thousands of years he had seen were weighing him down, the grief and the sadness making his shoulders sag under the strain.

“I am inclined to believe you, skinchanger. But there are those amongst my people,” he spoke lowly, “that still remember the battles of old. They might sense your _fae_ . You must leave as soon as possible. I cannot guarantee they will not try to avenge their fallen brethen. An elf's memory is a long one.”

“We shall leave as soon as we are rested,” Bilbo promised. “Tomorrow, as we agreed.”

Thranduil hummed in thought. “Yes, tomorrow,” he repeated slowly. “Yes. My son, Legolas, will guide you through the forest. You should be able to hire a barge that goes into Laketown after that.”

Bilbo inclined his head tiredly. “We are much obliged, Your Majesty.”

The King snorted unelegantly. “We? Do not speak for the dwarves, Master Baggins. _Especially_ Thorin Oakenshield. If it were up to me, I would detain you in my dungeons long enough to get the idea of reclaiming the Lonely Mountain out of your thick skulls.” The elf smirked at the hobbit's surprised expression. “Please, Mister Baggins, I am not blind, nor am I stupid. I know exactly why you and the company of dwarves from Erebor are trespassing my lands, and it is not _wine trade_ .”

“But heed my words, skinchanger,” Thranduil continued and his eyes shone with a strange light. “Waking that dragon will bring death upon many. Are you prepared to bear such burden once more?”

Bilbo sighed, bowing his head. Valar, how exhausted he was.

“I will stop Smaug, if I am able.”

Thranduil chuckled coldly.

“You better be, Master _Hobbit_ . The White Council may not be so merciful next time.”

With that said, the elf waved his pale hand in a dismissive gesture and Bilbo bowed politely, noting with surprise the elven maid who once again appeared at the door to escort him back to the chambers where the rest of the Company rested.

He followed her obediently, body and mind crying out for the well-deserved rest. The she-elf said nothing as they walked along the dimly lit corridors, but the slight grimace on her fair face clearly indicated her displeasure at entering the quarters occupied by dwarves again.

“There is no need to walk me all the way back,” Bilbo said lightly, and she looked at him with surprise.

“The King-”

“ _The King,”_ Bilbo interrupted, “will not find out. You do not have to enter with me, if the Company makes you uncomfortable.”

She inclined her head slightly, but still seemed uncertain. Bilbo sighed.

“I won't sneak off as soon as your back is turned. Look at me – I can barely stand. All I need is a good night's sleep.”

She hesistated, but seemed to come to her decision as soon as they rounded the corner near the doors to the Dwarves' chambers.

“I trust you, Master Baggins, not to wander off,” she said softly. Only then did Bilbo notice the dark circles under her eyes and the paleness of her face. She must have been tired as well, working whole day in Thranduil's court.

“You have my word, my lady,” he murmured with a chuckle. She smiled back, a true smile that transformed her face into something much more beautiful. “I shan't leave this room until tomorrow. Neither will my companions.”

“Thank you, Master Baggins,” she said gently. Bilbo bowed politely and turned to walk rest of the way to the chambers alone.

He could feel her gaze on his back even after the door closed behind him with a quiet thud.


	10. My Mate, My Heart, My King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stunning [Capbadgered](http://capbadgered.tumblr.com) did an amazing fanart for this fic and you can see it [here](http://capbadgered.tumblr.com/post/107072687511/some-doodles-ive-been-doodling-for-this-amazing)
> 
> ISN'T IT BEAUTIFUL?! <3 thank you so much, darling, this is beyond my wildest dreams :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is! Another chapter! Hope you'll enjoy it :)
> 
> Also: 
> 
> _Italics_ \- thoughts  
>  _"Italics"_ \- conversation in Khuzdul

_He doesn't look very ecstatic,_ Bilbo thought looking at the Prince of Mirkwood from the corner of his eye as they walked along the narrow, dark path. Indeed, the elf seemed almost fuming in anger, his lips pressed into a tight, pale line and his cheeks flushed a furious pink. His steps were quick and agile, but jerky like those of a young buck ready to charge. If he was trying to contain his emotions, he was doing a rather poor job of it. Bilbo, however, deemed it best not to point it out.

The rest of the elves, except for the redheaded Captain, walked along the path further into the forest keeping an eye out on spiders and other creatures that might lurk in the darkness, and Bilbo felt significantly safer for their presence. They had enough food and water to last them weeks should they get lost again, but it would never do to take things for granted. And Bilbo had no desire to wander this damned forest ever again, with his dear friends starving and desperate.

As for the Company, they walked in a tight group, muttering to themselves in Khuzdul, whether to aggravate their escort or Bilbo, the hobbit wasn't sure. They had put up quite a fight when Bilbo announced they would be walked out of the acursed forest by a small group of elven warriors with Thranduil's son leading them – the shouts of denial and loud grumblings about treacherous nature of those “tree-shaggers”, as Dwalin had called them to the Company's delight, continued well into the afternoon when they were to depart. Bilbo had tried to pay them no heed, he truly did, but he could not help sending a few pleading looks towards their leader, asking him silently to _shut them up._ But each time, the Dwarf King averted his gaze, his stony face set in an displeased grimace, and the hobbit soon gave up the attempt to reason with the subborn, thickheaded children of Aüle.

He left them to their own devices and instead of walking with the lads as he used to he marched right behind Legolas, ignoring Kili and Fili's whining and Thorin's disapproving glare. While Legolas was not very chatty, his Captain seemed more inclined towards the hobbit – she was young still, as far as Bilbo could tell, though it was always tricky with elves. But she did not recognize him as anything other than a halfling and seemed quite genuiely interested in hobbits. They spent some time talking about the Shire and its traditions, starting from food and somehow ending up on courtship rituals.

“It's all very open in the Shire, you must understand,” Bilbo explained to Tauriel and she nodded, listening attentively, thought every once in a while her eyes would shift from Bilbo to roam the dark trees around them suspiciously. _Good_ , Bilbo thought. _Always alert._ “A charperone is not usually needed anymore, though more traditional parents of the young couple would often insist upon having one. Still, charperone or no, the couple can kiss and touch as much as they want without getting too, ah, close. That comes after the wedding.”

“I see,” Tauriel said, a faint blush appearing on her cheeks as her eyes flickered towards the back of the line where the princes trudged along. Bilbo bit back a smirk. _Interesting. “_ What about gifts?”

Bilbo smiled. “Yes, gifts, of course! Flowers and ribbons are the norm for males to give to their intended, but food is also often exchanged. Some would even go as far as building a home for their fiance, like my,” his voice trails off for a fraction of a second and the smile slips off his lips, “my friend did for his wife.”

Tauriel noticed the slight pause and the haunted look in his eyes, and her face fell. “Oh, Master Baggins,” she breathed, her voice grief-stricken, but Bilbo shook his head with a small smile and patted her hand gently. A low growl at his back and heated whispers as he touched the elf almost made him hoot with laughter.

“Don't worry, my dear. All's well,” he assured her quietly. He knew Thorin was listening in, much like the rest of the Company, so he lowered his voice a little if only to make the nosy dwarves strain a little harder to hear. “It was a long time ago.”

“What happened?” she asked with all the curiosity of a youngster who had never left the safe borders of their home. Her gaze quickly turned sheepish, though, and she flinched at ther own audacity. “I apologise, Master Baggins, it was not my intention-”

“No, no, don't apologise, Captain,” he assured her with a low chuckle. The stiff back of the elven Prince who continued to ignore them so far seemed to stiffen even more and his head turned a little towards them. “It is not a secret. A few years ago, the Shire went through the harshest winter in decades. Wolves came down from the mountains and crossed the frozen river – you can imagine the terror and panic. We hobbits,” here the prince gave a quiet snort of contempt and Bilbo shot him a glare, “are not accustomed to any form of warfare. We had no weapons to defend ourselves save for pitchforks and hoes. Most of us stayed home where it was safe, but the weather turned worse before it got better and many fell ill. My... my friends died from fever that winter.” _I could not help them. I was too week. I failed._

Tauriel looked at him in silence, her eyes sympathetic. The marched on, the dwarves strangerly quiet behind them. Bilbo turned to see what was going on. Thorin was watching him with a pained expression on his face, the skin around his eyes pinched with sorrow. The dragon in Bilbo rumbled mournfully at the sight, urging him to walk up to his mate and comfort him as best as he could. He gave the King a small smile instead, but the dwarf only shook his head and lowered his gaze to the forest floor, crossing his arms on his chest and glowering at the dead leaves scrunching under his boots. The rest of the dwarves stared at him as well – it was Bifur who broke the silence, muttering something in Khuzdul that had them all nod and mumble a reply.

“What?” Bilbo asked, suspicious. Tauriel seemed to notice his agitation and sped up so Bilbo could talk to his companion alone. She fell into step with Legolas who immediately started speaking to her in a heated Sindarin, his pale face flushing in anger as she replied with a cheeky grin.

Bilbo narrowed his eyes at the dwarves, allowing a few of them to pass him (Thorin had not even looked at him, he noted sadly) before he pounced on Bofur, grabbing his arm to keep him from bolting.

“What?” he repeated, fingers tightening on the dwarf's arm. Bofur shrugged, easily shaking him off, and slung his now free arm around Bilbo's shoulders, tucking him firmly into his side.

“Nothing to worry about, Master Burglar,” the toymaker said, ignoring hissed splutterings of the young princes walking behind them. Thorin's back stiffened at their hushed whispers and he made a move like he wanted to turn around and look at them, but Dwalin leaned into his space and said something to him quietly. The Dwarf King listened for a moment before nodding stiffly. Bilbo watched the whole interraction, confused, until Bofur's cheerful whistling brought him back to the matter at hand.

“You will tell me what all this whispering is about, or so help me, I will burn that hat of yours!”

Bofur gasped in mock horror, grabbing one of the flaps of his ridiculous hat and pulling at it in despair. “Oh, Master Baggins,” he wailed, “have mercy!”

Some of the elves escorting them turned to look, their fair faces twisting in displeasure.

“You'd best keep your mouth shut, dwarf,” Prince Legolas called from the front of the line, his arms crosses on his chest and a scowl on his face. “It's not wise to rise your voice in this forest, even in daylight.”

“Aye, aye, Master Elf, keep your hair on,” Bofur called back cheerfully, but there was a hint of coldness in his tone that Bilbo had never heard before. It seemed even the kind toymaker was not immune to his race's hatered of the elves.

Legolas scoffed. His striking blue eyes landed on Bilbo for a moment, narrowing with contempt when their gazes met before turning sharply away and continuing on.

“What's his problem?” Bilbo muttered to himself and Bofur chuckled, his arm tightening around the hobbit's shoulders.

“Who can tell with them elves,” he said brightly. “Now, Master Baggins, you have mentioned something about my hat?”

Bilbo startled out of his thoughts with a huff, lightly smacking the dwarf when he laughed. “Enough of that, you. What's all this whispering about, eh? One would be inclined to think you lot are no better than a group of gossipy old ladies.”

“I would make a fine lady, thank you very much!” Bofur protested with a grin, batting his eyelashed. Bilbo snorted a laugh, covering his mouth hastily when one of the elves ventured closer to the path and sent him a telling look. He mouthed an apology, but the warrior's face remained stony and pinched with tension.

Bilbo dared to sneak a peak at the Dwarf King – Thorin walked stiffly and silently, Dwalin at his side with his bald head crooked to the side to look at Bofur and Bilbo. The old warrior's glare was fixed on the hobbit, fierce and more than a little terrifying before he turned around and murmured something to his King. Bilbo's spirit rumbled jealously at that, unimpressed with such close proximity of his mate and the other dwarf, but Bilbo pushed the feeling of possessiveness aside, once more fixing his attention on Bofur.

“Indeed. Now, explain?”

Bofur's smile fell a little but his arm tightened around Bilbo's shoulders.

“Family is very precious for us dwarves, Master Baggins,” he confessed quietly, his eyes fixed on the narrow path. “And you have become a part of it. It's hard to see you hurting, that's all.”

The hobbit stared at the side of his face, a dark pit digging its way into his stomach. Not only dwarrow valued their families – Bilbo's own people, while wary of strangers, tended to be very protective of their kin, keeping them safe from dangers and warm when the temperature fell to uncomfortable numbers at night. Bilbo still rememberd curling down with his cousins on the soft, cool sand, their combined heat chasing away the chill, their parents keeping watch over the younglings, their wings and tails wrapped around each other as they sat crooning sweetly to make the little ones close their eyes and sleep. Even in the Witchking's dungeons they would keep each other warm – not through touches, as the orcs would put them in separate cells, but they would call out in the middle of the night, reassuring and comforting. _You are not alone_ , they would say, _we are one. You are not alone._

But with each battle there would be less and less voices until silence ruled in the dungeons, silence and grief and pain, and Bilbo could not remember how they had sounded anymore, could not recall the depth and the warmth of their joined voices and they whispered in the darkness.

He startled out of this thoughts when Bofur's hand grabbed his and sqeezed in comfort, his warm, brown eyes understanding, and Bilbo must have made a sound of some kind because the next thing he knew were strong arms around him, his cheeks pressed to the dwarf's chest, a strong heartbeat under his ear. His throat tightened with emotion, the grief and longing making him wrap his arms aroung the toymaker and return the embrace with all his strength, clinging to him desperately. Another noise wormed itself out of his throat, long and mournful, and then there was another pair of hands on his shoulders, pulling him away from Bofur and turning him round. It wasn't until he felt a hard, unyelding metal against his skin that the scent of his mate engulfed him, immediately soothing his grief-stricken spirit. He whimpered, pressing harder into Thorin, his thoughts a steady beat of _mine, mine, my mate, my own, my Heart, my King,_ and a harsh sounding voice in his ear softly telling him to calm down.

“What's wrong with the halfling?”

An unpleasant, _unwanted_ voice joined the one of his mate and Bilbo felt a growl rise in his chest, arms tightening around his mate possessively.

“None of your business, elf,” his Tamer spat and Bilbo's spirit grumbled with agreement, basking in the warmth of his Heart so close.

“He's slowing the march,” the voice snapped again, and then there was a hand on the skinchanger's arm, hard and unforgiving, clenching around his bicep and dragging him away from his mate. He lashed out with a furious growl, the need to protect his Tamer overwhelming the rational part of him, blood-lust singing in his veins. But the arm around his shoulders held him back, the soft voice murmured reassurance once more, and Bilbo relaxed gradually, pressing his face desperately into the crook of his mate's neck. He crooned softly, mournfully.

“Bilbo,” his mate whispered into his ear. “Bilbo.”

He opened his eyes, not even sure when he had closed them. He leaned back a little and when the reality of what had happened hit him with the strength of a warhammer he staggered away from his mate, eyes wild and face pale. Thorin rised his hands in a placating gesture, his own eyes calm, but there was a shadow on his face, a suspicious frown upon his brow, and air seemed to turn into lead in Bilbo's lungs.

The rest of the Company stared at him, some with pity and understanding but all with shock. Prince Legolas was standing nearby with a pale Tauriel at his elbow, his palm sporting a few long gashes. He did not bleed, thankfully, but the expression on his face was murderous. His blue eyes flashed with hatered, and Bilbo thought faintly: _He knows._

Whether Thranduil told his son about Bilbo's true nature or he sensed his fae by himself, the hobbit didn't know. He didn't particularly want to find out either – he took another step backwards, shaking like a leaf. “We-We'd best c-continue on,” he stammered, voice stillted and unsure. “All's well,” he hastened to add when the princes made to comfort him, but their movements were slow and half-hearted. Their eyes flickered to Legolas cradling his hand. The skinchanger laughed, a small, pained sound, and ran a hand through his tousled curls. The dwarves' eyes followed the movement, “it's the forest, I think. I'm quite alright now, I should think. The sooner we get out of here, the better.”

They stood in silence after that, long and uncomfortable, until Balin cleared his throat and waved at them to move on. “You've heard what the lad said,” he grumbled, “let us get out of here.”

Finally, the dwarves listened, once more beginning the slow trudge throught the forest. Bilbo waited until they passed him, trying to look normal and failing miserably. Thorin shot him and unreadable look, but he rached out with his broad hand when he walked by and patted him once on the shoulder, a light touch that made the tension bleed out from the hobbit's stiff back. He smiled shakily in response and the dwarf grunted, his steps quickening until he caught up with Dwalin.

Bilbo stayed at the back of the line, alone but for his own thoughts.

 

___________________________

“ _Did you see that-”_

“ _-never seen anything like it-”_

“ _-so quick, like bloody lighting-”_

“ _-served him right, the pompous, elvish bastard-”_

“ _Enough!_ ” Thorin snapped, Khuzdul sharp and sour on his tongue. The Company's mutterings fell silent immediately and he turned his head a bit to glare at them. “ _That is enough. Cease this nonsense. It is not the time nor the place to discuss what happened.”_

They grumbled but complied, Kili and Fili quickly changing the topic to something much more lively, and soon the dwarves started a word game that turned into another heatedly whispered argument. Thorin frowned, taking a look around the dark trees looming around them. The closer they were to the Great Lake the less dense the forest became, the trees and wild shrubs not as big and imposing as they were in the depths of Mirkwood. A sliver of sunlight peaked through the canopy here and there, making the path less threatening, almost friendly, and Thorin felt something tight in his chest loosen slightly. Soon they will out of this acursed forest and if Thorin had anything to say on the matter no Dwarf will ever set foot in it again.

Prince Legolas walked quickly ahead of them, his blond head turned slightly to the side as he listened to his Captains quiet words, but every once in a while his sharp blue eyes would move through the Company and towards the back where Thorin knew Bilbo walked silently. The elf's eyes would narrow then, a sneer on his lips. And Thorin wondered.

Legolas was not the first elf to show contempt towards Master Baggins. Elrond had not been thrilled to receive the skinchanger in Rivendell either, after all. The dwarf wasn't stupid, no matter what Dis liked to say – there was something about Bilbo that made both the Lord of the Hidden Valley and the young elven prince treat him with contempt. It couldn't be Bilbo's character, for the hobbit, despite his temper, was a kind, sweet creature, loving and gentle (so warm in Thorin's arms, so soft, his smooth face pressed against his neck and his small fingers gripping the King's hands for dear life making him tremble with sudden desire to hold the Burglar closer, to keep him safe). Yet the elves were wary of him, hated him. There could be no other reason for it – it was the Burglar's true nature that must have been the reason of such unworthy treatment.

But what animal could possibly disgust the elves so? Or maybe it wasn't as much as Bilbo's other form (Thorin still marveled at the idea of a _true spirit)_ but his involvement with the Witchking of Angmar? But surely Gandalf would have explained to them that the poor creature had not served that monster willingly!

Head nearly spinning with unanswered question, Thorin almost missed a step; he would have tumbled to the ground had it not been for Dwalin's sure grip on his arm.

“Steady,” the warrior grumbled, tightening his hold on his King until he found his footing. “Ye don't want to fall heads over arse into the mud in front of those weed-eaters.”

Thorin grunted in thanks, straightening with a low growl towards his nephews when they snickered behind his back. The scattered back behind Gloin, their faces fakely innocent.

_Rascals._

A sudden rustle of leaves to his left made him whril around, hand on Orcrist's hilt in a flash. His eyes windened with surprise when an orc jumped at them from the depth of the forest, the creature's ugly face twisted in a snarl. Before Thorin could move and kill the beast, an arrow pierced its eye and it fell to the ground limply, its foul body twitching in the last throes of death. Prince Legolas lowered his bow and shouted something to his soldiers. As soon as the order left his mouth, a whole pack descended on them with a roar.

Arrows flew with such speed Thorin had a hard time keeping up, but when the orcs came too close and engaged the dwarves in a fight, the elves hiding in the forest joined the skirmish, their daggers and shortswords flashing in and out as they danced around their enemies. The dwarves were no less ferocious – with a blood curling battle cry they launched themselves into the fight, axes and warhammers inflincing much more damage than any dagger, their movements careful and deliberate as they hacked and stabbed at the orcs.

A panicked shout of “ _Kili!_ ” had Thorin turning around on his heel, his eyes desperately searching his nephews in the fray only to see Bilbo Baggins with his little letter opener in his hand stab an orc in the throat, his eyes glowing strangely and a snarl on his lips, standing over Kili who with a grimace of pain was clenching his leg where a black, jagged arrow struck him.

“Kili,” he breathed, his heart stuttering to a stop, but another orc rushed at him and with a bellow he swung Orcrist as hard as he could, decapitating it in one smooth stroke.

Before long the fight was over – they had a significant advantage with the elves on their side, after all, and soon the orcs's corpses lay on the path, bloodied and still.

“Throw them into the forest,” the Prince commanded, briskly checking his soldiers for injuries. Satisfied that they only suffered shallow cuts and bruises, he continued, “let the spiders take care of them.”

The elves obeyed without a murmur of complaint, hauling the dead bodies with surpising strenght and throwing them deeper into the forest. Thorin watched them for a moment before rushing to his nephew's side where Oin was already checking him over. Bilbo hovered behind the healer, his wide eyes fixed on the bleeding wound. His face was pale but set in a detemined grimace as he gazed at the young prince, and Thorin felt a rush of affection for this small, brave creature who had saved them again and again. He nodded to the Burglar in thanks, trying to wordlessly show his gratitude, and the hobbit smiled weakly, inclining his head a bit in response. Fili appeared not a moment later, kneeling beside his brother with a small noise of distress.

“Poisoned,” the healer said, scowling at the rusty arrow tip. “We need to get him somewhere safe where I can tend to him properly.”

“The lake is close,” the redheaded elven Captain said, her green eyes widened with concern. Thorin frowned at the sight. “There should a bargeman waiting for the barrells from my King's halls. He will take you into town.”

“Thank you, Tauriel,” the hobbit murmured to her, but she did not look at him. Instead, she nodded stiffly, turning around to join her prince. Thorin watched Bilbo's face fall as he watched the she-elf walk away.

“Let's move on,” he said, helping Kili get to his feet. He tightened his grip on the lad's shoulder for a moment, bringing him closer to gently tap their foreheads together. Kili smiled shakily, his face already turning pale and sweaty, but he stood straight as Thorin released him. _A true son of Durin,_ he thought proudly, clasping Fili on the back as he moved to help his brother. _Both of them._

Their march was slowed by Kili's injury, but soon enough the forest ended and they stepped out onto a small, stony beach with delight.

“This is where we will leave you,” Prince Legolas said coldly. Slowly, he approached Bilbo who stood his ground defiantly though his hands shook as the prince leaned towards him and hissed something too quietly for Thorin to hear. The King made a move to drag the damn elf away from their hobbit, a low growl in his throat. Before he could even take a step towards them, though, the Burglar smiled brightly at Legolas, reaching out to touch his injured hand. The prince jerked back trying to avoid the halfling's palm, but the smaller creature caught his fingers swiftly. He murmured softly to the prince then, his face gentle and kind, and the elf stared at him for a moment before inclining his head a little, long hair falling across his fair face. In the next second he was gone, and Bilbo Baggins stood alone at the edge of the forest with a small, sad smile on his face.

Something painful twisted Thorin's insides at the sight and he looked hastily away, towards the Lonely Mountain.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for all the Kili fans, but I'm afraid I need him injured, so there's that :D absolutely valid for the next chapters, I promise :D


	11. Of Bargemen And Kings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for such long delay - I had a rough time lately, with me having to quit my studies due to my sickness, and all the other unpleasantness of life, including a few days without proper access to my laptop or interned connection. 
> 
> But now I'm back, and with a new chapter for you!
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

Lake-Town smelled like rotten fish.

It would be quite a nice place, Bilbo mused with a disgusted grimace, if the purdid odour hadn't been so determined to settle firmly in his clothes and hair, latching onto everything and everyone in a matter or seconds after their arrival at the wretched town.

The Master of Lake-Town, a slimy, repulsive man that in an instant made Bilbo's spirit growl warningly, was suspicious of their Company until the mention of gold appeared in the conversation – his blood-shot, cold eyes lit up with such greed Bilbo shuddered, quickly averting his gaze from the lustful look on the man's face.

Thorin had not warmed up to the Master either, it would seem, judging from his rather disgusted grimace when the man's hand gripped his broad shoulder as he proclaimed them welcome in the town with such horribly fake grandeour Bilbo gnashed his teeth in frustration.

He did _not_ wish to rip the man's hand off for touching his mate, not at all.

 _If only that were true,_ he thought with a grimace, curling his hand next to his chest when his spirit thrashed and howled in outrage. With each such occurence, when someone (even one of the members of the Company, though Bilbo loved them all dearly) would touch Thorin in front of Bilbo, his spirit would snarl and growl, trying to claw its way out and claim its mate as its own, and Bilbo feared he would not have the strength to contain his true form should it become agitated enough to consider anyone a threat to their mate and their bond, no matter how faint it was at the moment.

He knew settling the bond and having Thorin acknowledge himself as his Tamer was the only way to calm the dragon side of him, but he could not, _would not_ tell the King the truth. Not yet. Not until Smaug was gone and the mountain reclaimed.

A small pained noise snapped him out of his thoughts and Bilbo rushed to Kili's side, grabbing his arm to keep him upright. Fili, standing at his brother's right, gave him a grateful nod, the skin around his eyes pinched with worry and his lips turned down at the corners as he gazed at his weakening brother.

“Come,” Bilbo said quietly, guiding the princes into the house given to them by the Master to rest before they marched upon the mountain. “Let's get you abed so Oin can look you over, eh, there's a good lad.”

Kili made small noise of agreement between his clenched teeth. When Thorin shot them a quick, concerned look over his shoulder as the Master prattled on and on about the honour of hosting the King Under the Mountain in their humble town, Bilbo smiled reassuringly, nodding towards the small house. The dwarf inclined his head in thanks, though his eyes still followed his nephews with worry. Suddenly, he moved as if to walk up to them and leave the Master to his own devices, but the damned man's hand once again landed on the King's shoulder. Balin, who was standing at Thorin's side, leaned in ever so slightly and when Thorin's eyes snapped to him, he moved his hands in a series of rapid gestures, unnoticed by those not looking closely enough.

The King turned away from his nephews and Bilbo after shooting them one more concerned look, and followed the Master into his house, Balin at his heels. Bilbo scrunched his nose with displeasure, his eyes glued to his dwarf's back until they disappeared from sight. _Damn diplomacy._

The rest of the Company turned and began walking to the house, tired and hungry after the whole day's march. They kept shooting Kili worried glances, Bofur and Dwalin hovering nearby to help should the lad collapse, but when the toymaker reached out to take the prince's arm from Bilbo and support him as they walked inside, the hobbit shot him a dark look that had the dwarf chuckling and backing away.

“Come on,” Bilbo muttered to the lads quietly, though the smile on his face felt forced and strained. “Let's get you settled.”

The house was small and smelled of fish like everything in Esgaroth, but it was warm and fairly cosy. They deposited Kili onto a bed in one of the bedrooms, careful not to jostle him too much and cause him even more pain. The lad was flushed with fever, his movements weak and slow, and bile rose in the hobbit's throat as the twisted with illness faces of his dear Bungo and Belladonna flashed before his eyes.

He shook his head firmly, pushing the unpleasant thoughts away. This was not the time to think of such things. They had to take care of Kili first.

Oin pushed his way through the gathering of dwarves, muttering and cursing under his breath as he unbound the bandages to examine the prince. The skin around the wound was red and hot to the touch, the smell of poison making even the stench of fish seem favourable in comparison. Bilbo averted his gaze for a moment to compose himself and stop the gagging noise that got stuck in his throat at the sight and smell, clenching his teeth when Kili gave a pained moan.

“We need to clean the wound,” the healer said, taking out his medical kit. “Someone hold him down.”

“Can't we knock him out?” Fili urged, latching onto his brother's hand. Oin shook his head regretfully.

“I'm sorry, laddie, but there is no telling how the poison could affect him further. I need him awake for this.”

Dwalin stepped forward, a heavy frown on his brow as he looked at the injured prince. “I'll hold him down,” he said roughly. His piercing blue eyes moved to Fili. “Go get your uncle, lad. He'll be glad to finally escape the Master's clutches. He and Balin spent enough time with the Man as it is, bugger the sweet-talk.”

Fili opened his mouth as if to protest, but Dwalin only crossed his arms on his chest and nodded at the door, his face set in a firm expression.

“Go on, Fili,” Bilbo said reassuringly. “I'll look after him while you're gone.”

The blond prince hesitated for a moment longer, his eyes frantically searching his brother's for any sign of protest, but Kili only smiled weakly and waved him away.

“I'll be fine,” he rasped. His face softened then, eyes wide and almost frightened, and when he spoke again his voice was a mere whisper, like that of a child, “will you get Uncle?”

“Of course, little brother,” Fili replied, stroking his broad hand through Kili's thick mane of hair. “Of course I will, he'll be here soon.”

With the last squeeze of Kili's hand, the older prince got up and disappeared from the room. Kili's head fell back onto the pillows, his face still twisted in a grimace of fear and pain, and it suddenly hit Bilbo how truly young the two brothers were, both seeking their Uncle's approval and comfort at every possible occasion. It was more noticable with Kili than his older brother, however, the younger prince looking up to his Uncle with such devotion and unconditional love. They would both follow Thorin to the end of the world, and in a way they did already. Bilbo felt his spirit coo, a low noise of concern, and Bilbo descreetly patted his chest again. Thorin was his Tamer, yes, but he was not the only one he was protective of. The lads and the rest of the Company were like family to him now, and though the King held his heart, they had his love as well.

“I have you, lad,” Bilbo heard Dwalin mutter to the prince as he sat down at the edge of the bed. “It'll be over soon.”

His strong, broad hands settled on the prince's shaking shoulders. Kili gave a huff of sad laughter, but didn't say anything as the older warrior turned his head to the side gently, keeping him from looking at Oin who was preparing the knife.

“It's going to hurt, right?” Kili asked quietly, and Bilbo's heart clenched at the fear in his voice. He wanted to rush in and reassure the lad, but Dwalin was already leaning over him, nodding slowly with a grim frown.

“Aye, it's going to hurt. Like a bitch,” he added after a moment, and Kili snorted weakly. “But I'm here. And Thorin will be here soon. You can do this.”

The prince looked at the warrior sitting next to him and his gaze stayed locked onto Dwalin's even as Gloin and Nori moved to hold down his legs. Oin cleared his throat.

“Ready?” he asked, and Dwalin put some of his weight on Kili's chest, not enough to crush him but enough to keep his upper half from moving. His huge hands pressed the prince's shoulders into the soft mattress underneath.

“Ready,” he said roughly, his eyes still holding Kili's gaze.

“Is Fili gone?” Kili murmured hurriedly. “Don't want him to see.”

“He's gone,” Bilbo assured him, stroking the lad's dark hair away from his sweaty, flushed face. “He will come back with Thorin.”

“Steady,” Oin ordered harshly, leaning over the wounded leg, and the hobbit averted his gaze. He couldn't help but flinch when Kili howled in pain, struggling to stay as still as possible. Dwalin was murmuring something in harsh Khuzdul into the prince's hair, his forehead pressed against Kili's temple – the old warrior look pained when Kili gave no indication of hearing him and screamed again, a blood-freezing sound of utter agony. Tears streamed down the young dwarf's cheeks and the screams and pleas to stop the torture went on and on as Oin methodically and with great poise continued to cut away the already blackened flesh and clean the wound.

Kili's hands were clenched on Dwalin's shoulders hard enough to leave bruises but when Bilbo touched the back of his palm in comfort, the prince's fingers latched onto his with such strength Bilbo could feel bones griting under his skin. He clenched his teeth and held on.

He could help Kili dull the pain had the wound been made by his hand – he had helped with scratches on Legolas's arm, after all, three long, redened gashes marring the elven prince's pale skin. But the scratches were made by him and so easily mended. Not completely, of course, for he didn't have such skill, but he could dull the unpleasant sting left behind by his claws easily enough, if he so desired. But the wound in Kili's leg was not of his make, and so he could do naught but sit by the prince and hold onto his hand as he pleaded for them to stop and screamed himself raw until he could scream no more, moaning pitifully into the sweat-soaked pillow. The poor lad was shaking like a leaf by the end of the ordeal, hissing weakly when Oin packed the wound with kingsfoil and bound his leg with a fresh bandage.

Gloin and Nori finally let go of Kili's legs, their faces pale and grim, and Dwalin released a heavy sigh of relief, lightly knocking his forehead against the young warrior's sweaty one.

“Well done, laddie,” he murmured, leaning back to let Kili turn his head and relax against the bed. His eyelids fluttered shut.

“No, no, no,” Bilbo said, patting the lad's cheek gently. Kili moaned, turning his head slowly to look at him. “You cannot sleep yet, and we need to change the sheets, Kili, up you get.”

The groans of dismay and protests fell on deaf ears as Dwalin bent and picked Kili up, cradling the lad to his chest as if he were a babe while Bilbo and Dori rushed to quickly change the soaked sheets. In a matter of seconds the bed was made, fresh and clean, and the prince was carefully lowered onto the soft mattress again.

“Keep him awake for an hour or so,” Oin said, ignoring Kili's mumbled complaints. “We have to make sure there will be no complications from the poison. He can sleep later.”

“I'll make sure he stays awake,” Bilbo said, rising his hand to hush any protests, “you're all tired, I can handle Kili for an hour or two.”

“Handle m-me, eh?” Kili muttered with a weak snort. “Uncle w-would have s-something to say about t-that.”

Bilbo frowned down at the young prince, moping away the shine of sweat on his forehead.

“He's delirious,” he said, eyes pinched with worry. Dwalin made an odd, strangled sound at the back of his throat, something between a laugh and a cough, and crossed his arms on his broad chest.

“No change there then,” the gruff warrior muttered, giving a small chuckle at Kili's indignant squawk.

“H-Have some r-r-respect, damn it, I'm y-your p-p-prince!” Kili demanded weakly, sluggishly trying to bat away Bilbo's hands.

Dwalin's chuckle turned into a bark of laugher and the old warrior left the room, his broad shoulders shaking with mirth.

“I c-could order him around, if I w-wanted to,” the young dwarf muttered sullenly. Bilbo clucked his tongue, patting his flushed cheeks.

“Of course you could, Kili,” he said lightly, but the sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable even to the weakened prince, who glared at the hobbit with all his might. His glower quickly turned into another pained grimace and his dark eyes peered at the halfling pleadingly. “Uncle?”

Bilbo's smirk eased into a gentle smile as he reassured his charge: “He'll be here soon, I'm sure.”

As soon as the words left his mouth the door opened and Thorin stepped into the room, his brow furrowed as he gazed at his nephew. He was sitting next to Kili faster than Bilbo could blink, his broad hand gently pushing away the hair off of Kili's sweaty forehead.

He spoke Khuzdul quietly, his large fingers smoothing the tangles in the prince's hair, his usually fierce eyes gentle. Bilbo swallowed at the expression of tender affection visible on the King's face as he gazed down at his nephew. It wasn't everyday that he was privy to such sights and he greedly took in the picture his Tamer painted as he talked reassuringly to the injured prince, his voice hoarse with emotion.

He could not understand what they were saying to each other, but there was an unmistakable mention of his name falling from Kili's lips, and suddenly those beautiful blue eyes were fixed on him, the King's face still gentle, his smile small but oh so lovely.

“Thank you for taking care of him, Master Baggins,” the King said slowly, rising from the bed. His hands, broad and strong, rested gently on Bilbo's shoulders, squeezing lightly. The hobbit, desperately trying to ignore his spirit's insistance to reach out and claim his mate, smiled shakily in return, shaking his head a little to dismiss Thorin's thanks.

“No need to thank me,” he said, glad to hear no tremor in his voice. “I would do the same for any member of the Company.”

Thorin's smile widened, white teeth showing. Bilbo felt faint.

“You are a wonder, Master Baggins,” the King murmured, his thumbs rubbing Bilbo's collarbones slowly, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, and the skinchanger suddenly forgot how to speak.

“Uncle,” came a wail from the direction of the bed, and Bilbo jumped away from Thorin, rushing to Kili's side. He glanced up quickly, but the King's attention was once again on his nephew.

Bilbo tried not to be disappointed.

 

***

 

With Kili sleeping soundly in his room and Fili keeping vigil over his brother's resting form, Bilbo left the house and sat heavily at the wooden bench outside, groaning at the ache in his lower back and feet. He had not had a chance to sit and rest ever since they arrived in Lake-Town with a rather taciturn bargeman called Bard. While the man was not entirely inclined to talk to the dwarves, he seemed to have warmed up to the hobbit as their short journey progressed.

 _Manners maketh hobbit,_ as Belladonna used to say, and it seemed that Bilbo's charm worked on Men as much as it did on the hobbits back in the Shire. Valar knew it didn't work on elves.

 _Or Dwarf Kings_ , he thought sullenly, reaching into his ruined waistcoat's pocket. His pipe seemed undamaged save for a few nicks and scratches, and Bilbo lit it happily, watching silently the hustle and bustle of the city around him. The smell of fish still irritated his nose but the odour didn't sting his eyes anymore, and the halfling was sure he'll get used to it in no time at all. Perhaps it wouldn't even bother him all that much.

He strained his ears, listening to any sound of distress coming from the house, but their temporary lodgings were dark and silent, the dwarves sleeping off their tiredness save for Gloin who sat in the armchair in the living-room, keeping watch. Completely unnecessary, had anyone bothered to actually ask for Bilbo's opinion on the matter, since they were _welcomed_ here by the Master of Lake-Town and therefore didn't have to worry about being attacked in the middle of the night (or early morning as was the case), but Thorin was as much paranoid as he was handsome. And so Gloin was “keeping watch”, if keeping watch included snoring in front of the fire like a bear. Bilbo, however, had no doubts that the dwarf would sping to his feet faster than Bilbo could shout a warning, axe in his hands and murder in his eyes.

Charming creatures, dwarves.

“Master Hobbit.”

Bilbo startled, almost dropping his pipe at the unexpected voice to his right, and he whiped his head round to look at the newcomer. Bard was watching him with a slight smile on his lips, not apologetic at all about frightening Bilbo almost out of his wits.

“Isn't it a bit early for you to be awake, Master Hobbit?” the Man asked, sitting gracefully next to Bilbo on the small bench. The halfling sighed.

“I would agree with you, Master Bard, had I gone to sleep at all,” he murmured, taking another long drag of his pipe. “Kili kept me up all night.”

The man's eyebrows shot up on his forehead and his lips opened in a quiet “oh”, but there was a smirk lurking at the corner of his mouth and Bilbo realized how that had sounded.

He spluttered, cheeks flushing suddely in embarrasment. “N-no! Not like that, Eru, you mustn't think-”

Bard's deep laughter interrupted him and the bargeman clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to nearly send him falling to the ground.

“Peace, Master Hobbit, peace! I know what you meant. Kili is the injured one, isn't he?”

Bilbo let out a heavy sigh, his cheeks still red. “Yes, that's our Kili. He developed a slight fever overnight, and I had to make sure it wouldn't worsen.”

“Of course,” Bard murmured, turning to watch the Men going about their business. There were more and more of them as the early morning sun rose slowly on the horizon, the fishermen taking their boats out onto the open lake, their faces grey and drawn with fatigue in the pale light.

“They look tired,” Bilbo said quietly. Bard grunted, his hands clenching the edge of the bench like claws.

“Aye, that they are. Tired and hungry. The Master takes all the wealth, eats and drinks his fill when our people all but starve,” he sneered, his dark eyes blazing with anger. Bilbo watched him for a moment, noting the tense shoulders and the pale, thin face.

“Why not revolt then?” he inquired softly. Bard snorted.

“Revolt? Who? Fishermen and women, who had never held a weapon in their hands? The Master's soldiers would massacre them in seconds.”

The lapsed into silence. Bard's shoulders lost some of their tension as the minutes went by until the bargeman was all but slumped in his seat.

“I should go,” he said after a while, making to stand. Bilbo's hand shot out before he could think better of it, taking a hold of the man's sleeve in an iron grip.

“Don't give up,” Bilbo murmured quietly, “don't you dare give up, Bard. Lake-Town will prosper again.”

The bargeman stared at him in silence, his face crumpling a little before he composed himself once more. He nodded, rough fingers covering Bilbo's for a moment and sqeezing in thanks. Then he was gone.

Bilbo watched him meander through the crowd of people before the man disappeared from sight around the corner, two seemingly incognito soldiers following at a short distance.

“You have grown close to the bargeman,” came a deep, rough voice behind him and Bilbo turned slowly, tapping his pipe against the bench to get rid of the pipeweed stuck to the bottom of the bowl. Thorin was standing in the door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed on his breast and a heavy frown on his brow. He seemed displeased.

“Hardly,” Bilbo replied, willing away the fluttering in his stomach at the sight of his mate. “He's a good man, though.”

“How well you seem to know him,” came a gruff reply and Bilbo's eyebrows rose at the displeased grimace on Thorin's face.

“I don't know him at all,” he said with a chuckle, but it only seemed to make matters worse as Thorin's glower deepened.

“You wish to know him better?” he demanded, striding forward until he was standing next to the bench. Bilbo looked up at him, confused.

“What do you mean?” he asked carefully. Thorin's face twisted unpleasantly.

“If you wish to pursue him, I'm afraid you'll have to wait until the quest is done and Erebor reclaimed. You're bound by the contract.”

Bilbo gaped at the dwarf in silence, too shocked to speak.

“Pursue?” he coughed out finally and Thorin frowned.

“Court,” he snapped, “Surely you know what that means.”

A laugh bubbled in Bilbo's chest and before he could stop himself it spilled, bright and sudden. Thorin's thunderous glower changed into a confused frown as Bilbo laughed and laughed until he could hardly breathe.

“I don't wish to court Bard,” the hobbit choked out finally, noting with interest the way the King's shoulders seemed to relax at the statement. “Goodness, Thorin, why would you even think that?”

The dwarf seemed to fidged a little, uncrossing his arms and clasping them on the small of his back, then recrossing them on his chest again.

“He touched your hand,” he explained gruffly, and Bilbo fought with himself as another wave of giggles threatened to leave his mouth.

“Yes, because I was trying to comfort him and he wanted to thank me for it,” he said slowly, smiling at the gunt he got in response. “No need to fear – Bard won't steal me away.”

Thorin visibly relaxed at that, his eyes fixed on Bilbo as if he was trying to figure out whether the hobbit was telling the truth. Satisfied, he nodded shortly, turning back towards the house.

“Come, Master Hobbit,” he called over his shoulder. “Breakfast won't make itself.”

Bilbo scowled but followed inside, trying and failing to ignore the warmth settling in his belly and the dragon all but purring in contentment.

 

 


	12. Of Brothers, Rings and Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I apologise for the shortness of the chapter, but I did not want to stuff it too much with action and it turned out slightly shorter than I anticipated. Secondly, I apologise yet again for the delay. I have been busy with physiotherapy and my own personal and psychological issues revolving around the illness that I simply did not have the strength nor heart to write anything at all. I would like to thank all of you who sent me kind " get well" messages and comments. You are all amazing, amazing people and I am glad to know you enjoy my writing :) Thirdly, sorry for all and any typos and grammatical mistakes, the story is not yet beta'ed.
> 
> Take care, y'all, I hope to come back to you soon with another chapter.

Breakfast was mostly a silent affair, with Kili still confined to his bed and Fili refusing to leave his brother's side. The rest of the Company seemed to be in better spirits, but instead of their usual merry-making at the table, their conversation was stilted, voices low as they murmured to each other to pass this or that. Bilbo watched them with concern, noting the paleness of their faces and lines of fatigue still etched on the skin around their eyes and mouth despite a good night's sleep. Still, they ate and drank their fill, complimenting Bilbo on his cooking which left the hobbit flushed pink with pride – he had tried his best to make something that would suit his dwarves' tastes with what little food the house seemed to offer, and hearing his skills were appreciated made his spirit grumble pleasantly in his chest. He could take care of his dwarves, make them feel content. That was all that mattered.

After breakfast, when the dishes were cleaned and put back in their place, Bilbo expressed a desire to see the town properly. Thorin had frowned at that, but before he could voice a protest Ori jumped excitedly at the idea of exploring Lake-Town and wandered out after the hobbit without a backward glance. Nori slipped out after them at Dori's insitent nudging and Thorin's short nod, the thief silent like a shadow as he followed them at a safe distance.

Thorin watched them go until Bilbo's smaller form disappeared in the crowd of Big Folk, unease coiling deep in his stomach as he lost sight of his Burglar. He disliked having the hobbit wander off without him – it would be all too easy for one of the Men to overpower the halfling and rob him of his possessions. or worse, hurt him and leave him somewhere, beaten and bruised, unable to defend himself. Thorin had seen the hunger in the Men's eyes, the desperate looks they shot the Company as the dwarves walked through the narrow streets of Lake-Town, their gazes quick and searching for any sign of a coin-purse or jewels hidden in their pockets. But Bilbo went to explore with two dwarves at his side – Ori had keen eyes for any funny business going on, and Nori was quick and deadly when the situation called for it, so Thorin forced himself to relax and not follow the halfling into town.

He stood from his chair slowly, placing a steadying hand on Dwalin's shoulder as his friend moved to follow. Silently, he inclined his head in the direction of the room where the lads were staying, and Dwalin nodded, settling himself comfortably in his chair once more.

Thorin squeezed his shoulder briefly before moving away, shooting him a small, amused smile as he went which Dwalin chose to ignore.

The lads were quiet as he entered the room: Kili seemed to be sleeping, his face pale and drawn in a pained grimace; Fili sat in the chair near the bed with his elbows resting on his knees and his head cradled in his hands as he watched his brother with tired, heavy-lidded eyes. The tray with breakfast Bilbo had carried to them earlier this morning sat untouched at the low table nearby, and Thorin frowned at the sight of it with concern as he closed the door with a quiet click.

“Fili,” he said lowly, careful not to startle his nephew as he stepped closer. Fili shook his head as if to clear it, looking up at him with a small smile.

“Uncle,” he greeted quietly before turning once more to look at Kili. The younger prince slumbered still, his breathing deep and even. Fili's face grew concerned. “He wouldn't eat any food,” he said, “said it was making him feel sick.”

“He'll eat after he wakes,” Thorin murmured, sitting carefully at the edge of Kili's bed. He reached out to brush away a stray lock of hair from his nephew's slightly damp forehead, a slight smile tugging at his lips as the lad snuffled a little and leaned into the touch. “I'll make sure of it.”

Fili nodded, though concern did not leave his eyes. They sat in silence for a while, watching Kili sleep. Finally, Thorin stood, clasping his hand on Fili's shoulder. “Eat something,” he said gently, but there was a hint of steel underneath, an order more than a request, “Kili would not be pleased if he heard you've been neglecting your own health.”

Fili chuckled, shaking his golden hear in exasperation. “He wouldn't,” he agreed. His eyes moved to the tray. Thorin saw hunger in his gaze as he looked at the food. He nudged Fili gently in the direction of the dishes and the younger dwarf finally relented with a huff, reaching out and snatching one of the plates with a grumble. Thorin let himself chuckle lowly at the sigh of his nephew gobbling down the food, before leaving the room as silently as he had came in.

Dwalin was still sitting at the table, staring into a tankard with a faint frown on his brow. Thorin moved to join him, giving the other dwarf a telling look as he sat down. Dwalin merely shrugged in response, but there was a dark look in his eyes that betrayed his mood – his friend had something on his mind and Thorin was going to find out what exactly troubled him so.

“ _Speak your mind, friend,_ ” he murmured. Dwalin's eyes snapped up to meet his gaze at the quietly spoken Khuzdul.

“ _That would be unwise,”_ he replied lowly, looking back into the depths of his tankard. It was unlike Dwalin to indulge in ale so early in the day, but drink here was watered down and weak so Thorin let it be.

“ _Unwise or not, I would have you tell me what troubles you so, brother,”_ the King said with a faint frown. He stood to grab a tankard for himself and another pitcher of ale before sitting back down with a quiet grunt. He filled his mug, then proceeded to do the same for Dwalin. The other warrior stared at him for a moment, surprise mixing with a pleased glint his eyes at the gesture – it should have been the other way around, with Dwalin pouring the drink for his King out of respect for his status; for Thorin to do it for Dwalin meant the King considered him one of his closest kin, and it sent a flare of warmth through Dwalin's chest.

“ _Now, spill,_ ” Thorin demanded, rising his mug to take a careful sip. He scowled down at the drink, as if offended by its foul taste, before rising his gaze back to Dwalin. There was a feral grin on his best friend's lips. He tipped the tankard slightly, ale sloshing its sides.

“Are ye sure I should? Last time ye made me _spill_ , if I remember correctly, we destroyed half a pub in Bree and Balin had to pay our bail.”

“And you went back home in naught but a shirt after you ripped off your trousers and started yelling about dwarves not _shrinking_ from the cold,” Thorin answered dryly, pleased when Dwalin's booming laugh sounded through the small kitchen.

“Aye,” the warrior said proudly, “had to prove them Men wrong, didn't I? Ah, but those were good times,” he continued with a hint of longing in his voice, “ when we were still young, eh, princess?”

“And foolish,” Thorin reminded him, taking another sip of his ale. Dwalin chuckled, nodding.

“ _We had no coin in our pockets back then,_ ” he said quetly after a moment, once more switching to Khuzdul, “ _and we and our people were starving more often than not._ ”

“ _Those day are over,_ ” Thorin answered, his voice louder than he intended. Dwalin nodded slowly, lips pursed in thought.

“ _Aye,_ ” he said after a while, “ _but coin or no, we always stick together._ ”

“ _Are we not brothers?_ ” Thorin murmured, not understanding what Dwalin wanted to say. The other warrior moved his hand with a scowl, as if he wanted to wave the words away. “ _Is that not what brothers do? Stick together?_ ”

“ _Brothers_ ” Dwalin said slowly, “ _also tell each other when they find their One_.”

Thorin stared at his friend, but Dwalin seemed to be far from finished. He tipped the tankard, taking a large gulp before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “And _brothers_ ” he continued in Westron, “tell each other when they should be careful with their hearts.”

Thorin set his tankard down with more force than necessary, his eyes narrowed in anger.

“What are you trying to say?” he demanded harshly. Dwalin regarded him calmly which only added to Thorin's rising temper. “Speak clearly! It's not like you to talk in riddles _, brother.”_

“It is not wise,” Dwalin said, “to lay your affections on the halfling.”

Thorin stilled. He tightened his hold on the tankard so hard the wood creaked under his fingers and his lips twisted in an unpleasant grimace as he watched Dwalin take another gulp of his ale. His friends blue eyes were boring into him, not at all troubled with the King's rising ire.

“You should be careful with your words, friend,” Thorin snapped finally, rising a little in his seat. “Especially when you know naught of what you speak.”

“I know you, Thorin Oakenshield,” Dwalin growled, something dark flashing in his eyes, “and I know your heart. I see how you look at him. I see how your eyes follow him wherever he goes. You can keep trying to fool yourself, my lord, but you cannot fool me.”

“And what is it to you?” Thorin struggled to keep his voice low enough not to alarm his nephews or other members of the Company. “Even if I hold the halfling in high regard, I see not why you would consider it your business.”

“You are my friend,” Dwalin said heatedly, his fingers curling into a fist, “and my brother. My _King_. I have served you for as long as I live. I have fough with you, and I have shared your grief. You will not dismiss me so easily.” He leaned forward in his seat then, his eyes narrowed but determined. “The halfling is not to be trusted.”

“Have you completely taken leave of your senses?” Thorin demanded, voice rising despite himself. “You still doubt him after all he's done?!”

“Aye, I cannot deny that he's done us a great service,” Dwalin snapped back, “but he's also hiding something, that you cannot ignore. The _elves_ hate him. He's claims to be a skinchanger, though we have never seen him in any other form but that of a hobbit. He admited being in the Witchking's service as a slave, but tell me this – why the Witchking would need his service in the first place if he were nothing but a sweet and gentle creature.”

Thorin stared at him in silence. Dwalin sighed heavily, running his hand down his face as if tired. He stood slowly, leathers and armour creaking, and walked around the table to stand at his friend's side. He laid a hand on his shoulder, gripping tightly.

“I like Master Baggins,” he said after a while. “He seems like a decent enough fellow and his company is enjoyable. He had saved your life - that I will never forget. But he's hiding something from us, Thorin. Dot not let your heart rule you.”

“ _When have I ever let it rule me before, brother?_ ” Thorin murmured in Khuzdul, slumping in his seat and closing his eyes with a tired sigh. _“But there is something about him, Dwalin, that makes it nearly impossible to look away from him. My heart yearns for him when he is not around. Even now it is urging me to go and find him, to keep him safe. I find myself jealous of every word he says, of every_ laugh _he shares with another. Of every_ touch _he bestowes upon his friends, though I know it to be innocent in nature.”_ He swallowed heavily, lifting his hand to grasp the one still clasped on his shoulder. Dwalin grunted in surprise but returned the strong grip. _“I fear that if-,”_ Thorin continued quietly, his voice raspy as if he hadn't spoken for some time, “ _if_ _he should ever leave my side, Dwalin, what little remains of my heart after all the grief and hardship it endured would finally snap in twain."_

“ _It is done, then,”_ Dwalin murmured with a sigh. “ _Your have claimed him as your One._ ”

Thorin's grip on the other dwarve's hand tighened painfully, but Dwalin didn't even wince. They stayed like that for a long time, both lost in their thoughts before the door opened abruptly and Bilbo, Ori and Nori walked in.

They froze on the doorstep, Ori's eyes wide as saucers as he stared at Thorin and Dwalin only to flush a bright red and quickly move to the living-room where the rest of the Company was resting with a rush of murmured apologies spilling from his lips. Nori followed his brother with a chuckle, winking at Dwalin as he left and completely ignoring the older dwarf's glower.

Bilbo, with his hair trousled by the wind and cheeks slightly red from the walk, was still standing in the door, staring at them in silence.

“Apologies,” he said finally, his eyes moving away from Dwalin's hand still resting on Thorin's shoulder to the door leading to the lads' room. “I should check on Kili.”

And with that, the halfling turned on his heel and marched off, his back stiff with tension.

Thorin looked up at Dwalin and sighed again.

“Agree this talk never happened?” he asked, standing up. Dwalin's hand tightened on his shoulder once more before patting it heartily a few times and falling away.

“Happy to,” he anwered gruffly. “All that emotional stuff is makin' me wanna hurl.”

Thorin let out a bark of laughter, though it still sounded strained even to his own ears. “Thank you,” he mumbled as he moved to leave the kitchen. “Brother.”

“Any time, brother” he heard a quiet reply before he stepped outside and sat on the bench, alone, to smoke his pipe and think.

 

*

 

Gandalf the Grey urged his horse to a faster gallop as he crossed the borders of the Shire. The matter of the ring sat heavily on his mind, the _One Ring,_ if Bilbo was correct in his suspicions of the trinket he had found in the Misty Mountains. Though Gandalf was at first unconvinced about the nature of the ring, the skinchanger had insisted he had heard the its hateful voice in his mind, had felt its icy touch in his heart as it promised him unmeasurable wealth and his return to the Last Desert should he only return it to its master. And Gandalf trusted Bilbo's word.

It was up to Gandalf to stop Evil from festering as soon as possible. If the Ring were found by the Enemy...

There was only one creature he could think of that could help him with this matter. No elf nor man would be able to resist the Ring's power, and dwarves were largely unconcerned with matters beyond their own. But the Ring had to be retrieved from the tunnels before any goblin could get his hands on it and cast into the fires of Mount Doom, and the only one to do it, Gandalf knew, was a Took.

 

*

 

Brandy Hall was quiet when Primula Brandybuck snuck out of her room and padded silently through wide, dark corridors. Taking her coat off of the iron hook near the door, she wrapped it around her shoulders as quietly as possible, careful not to jostle the material too much. Any louder noise would make her brothers and sisters come running, and the chatter that would arose if she even attempted to explain herself would no doubt wake her parents, who in turn would forbid her from going anywhere so late at night.

She looked over her shoulder to make sure noone was watching her before slowly opening the round door, wincing at the quiet creak of the hinges as they swung open. Drogo was already waiting for her, hidden in the shadow of a large tree and gesturing to her in a “come forth” gesture after making sure there was nobody around. She dashed through the front yard, carefully side-stepping mother's tulips and father's newest rhododendron shrub, still small enough to jump over.

“Hello,” she whispered, flushed from the brief sprint and the odd shyness that always seemed to uncurl in her chest whenever she saw Drogo. His own cheeks were slightly pink too, but his gaze was glued to her as if enchanted, eyes shining in the dark as he took a step closer and kissed her in the shadow of the tree, brief and sweet.

“Come on,” he murmured, taking her hand, “let's go to the River.”

“The River?” she repeated with raised brows, but followed him without protest, her heart skipping a beat when he turned to look at her over his shoulder. His dark hair curled round his pointy ears like springs, soft and thick, and she had to stop herself from reaching out to touch it.

“I heard Dora waxing poetry over the stars reflecting on the River the other day,” he confessed shyly. “I thought that, perhaps, we could go see them together?”

The uncertainty in his eyes and the slight tremor in his hand betrayed his nervouses, and Primula hurried to walk beside him, wrapping her arms around one of his and propping her chin on his shoulder. She smiled brightly. “With you,” she said, “I would gladly walk all the way to Mordor to gaze upon the fiery slopes od Mount Doom.”

He scoffed, but his cheeks turned a ruddy red. “Don't even think about that,” he murmured chastisingly, “I would never let you go anywhere near that place.”

“For you,” she insisted, the playful tone turning much more serious. “To keep you safe, I would. I would fight the Dark Lord himself.”

“How morbid are your thoughts, my love,” he chuckled. “Come, let us go. The stars are out tonight, shining brightly. Let me look upon you in their light.”

She laughed again, hiding her flushed face in his shoulder as they walked.

 _To keep you safe, my love,_ she thought, _I would do anything._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Got a tumblr? Get in touch: [PurrpleCat](http://purrple-cat.tumblr.com)


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